Cookie, taking note of my sagging head, brought me somebody's
dunnage bag for a pillow. I felt him drawing a tarpaulin over me
as I sank into bottomless depths of sleep.
I opened my eyes to the dying stars. The moon had set. Black
shapes of tree and boulder loomed portentous through the ashen
dimness that precedes the dawn. I heard men shouting, "Here she
comes!" "Stand by to lend a hand!" In haste I scrambled up and
tore for the beach. I must witness the landing of Aunt Jane.
"Where are they, where are they?" I demanded, rubbing my sleepy
eyes.
"Why didn't you stay by the fire and have your nap out?" asked Mr.
Shaw, in a tone which seemed to have forgotten for the moment to be
frigid--perhaps because I hadn't yet waked up enough to have my
quills in good pricking order.
"Nap? Do you think that for all the treasure ever buried by a
pirate I would miss the spectacle of Aunt Jane and Miss Browne
arriving? I expect it to compensate me for all I have suffered on
this trip so far."
"See what it is, Bert," exclaimed the Scotchman, "to have a truly
gentle and forgiving nature--how it brings its own reward. I'm
afraid you and I miss a great deal in life, lad."
The beautiful youth pondered this.
"I don't know," he replied, "what you say sounds quite fit and
proper for the parson, and all that, of course, but I fancy you are
a bit out in supposing that Miss Harding is so forgiving, old man.
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