own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain t afraid of dyin , not a
bit; only I don t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at
hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to
expect; and I m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin his
scythe. Ye see, I can t get out o the habit of caffin about it all at
once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of
Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don t ye dooal an greet, my
deary! --for he saw that I was crying-- if he should come this very
night I d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a
waitin for somethin else than what we re doin ; and death be all that
we can rightly depend on. But I m content, for it s comin to me, my
deary, and comin quick. It may be comin while we be lookin and
wonderin . Maybe it s in that wind out over the sea that s bringin with
it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look! he
cried suddenly. There s something in that wind and in the hoast beyont
that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It s in the
air; I feel it comin . Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call
comes! He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth
moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes silence, he got
up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled
off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time
kept looking at a strange ship.
I can t make her out, he said; she s a Russian, by the look of her;
but she s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn t know her mind
a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can t decide whether to
run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is
steered mighty strangely, for she doesn t mind the hand on the wheel;
changes about with every puff of wind. We ll hear more of her before
this time to-morrow.
CHAPTER VII
CUTTING FROM THE DAILYGRAPH, 8 AUGUST
76