“Try to be calm, Shank,” said Charlie, in a soothing¹ tone, as he kneeled beside the shadow that had once been his sturdy chum, and put an arm on his shoulder. “It is indeed myself this time. I have come all the way from England to seek you, for we heard, through Ritson, that you were ill and lost in these wilds, and now, through God’s mercy, I have found you.”

 

While Charlie Brooke was speaking, the poor invalid² was breathing hard and gazing at him, as if to make quite sure it was all true.

 

“Yes,” he said at last, unable to raise his voice above a hoarse³ whisper, “lost—and—and—found! Charlie, my friend—my chum—my—”

 

He could say no more, but, laying his head like a little child on the broad bosom⁴ of his rescuer, he burst into a passionate⁵ flood of tears.

 

Albeit⁶ strong of will, and not by any means given to the melting mood, our hero was unable for a minute or two to make free use of his voice.

 

“Come, now, Shank, old man, you mustn’t give way like that. You wouldn’t, you know, if you had not been terribly reduced by illness—”

 

“Yes, I would! yes, I would!” interrupted the sick man, almost passionately⁷; “I’d howl, I’d roar, I’d blubber like a very idiot, I’d do any mortal thing, if the doing of it would only make you understand how I appreciate your great kindness in coming out here to save me.”

 

“Oh no, you wouldn’t,” said Charlie, affecting an easy off-hand tone, which he was far from feeling; “you wouldn’t do anything to please me.”

 

“What d’ye mean?” asked Shank, with a look of surprise.

分享到：