“Pants,” said Tucket. “You’d not a wanted many pants if Ed and Mr. Margaret hadn’t been in the water. Them two in the water made ’em rush. If they’d come slow, you’d a been a hit in the neck with that chewed slug, my son. Don’t you forget it.” “Did anybody see Mr. Stukeley?” Margaret asked. “Was he in the rush? Could anybody see in the smoke?” “No, sir. No one saw him.” “Then why do you think he, he prompted the raid? What makes you think that?” “They’ve always received flags of truce before,” he answered. “And you’d a commission besides. You aren’t like one of us. Why didn’t they shoot when we put the son-of-a-gun ashore? I’ll tell you. They thought we were ordinary flag of truce. That curly-headed gentleman’s son put ’em up to it, after dinner. Why? I know. That’s why.” “I can’t see your point,” Margaret answered. His thought was that he would have a bad hour with Olivia. The thought had no bitterness; it occurred to him simply, as a necessary part of the pain of moving from the sloop. His shoulder gave him pain; the thought of climbing his ship’s side gave him pain. He had a blurred feeling that he would have to stand painfully, explaining to a nervous woman. He would never be able to do it, he thought. He was too stupid with pain. He was feverish. He was tired. He would have to stand there, trying to be tender and sympathetic, yet failing, stupid, blunt. They would have to rescue Stukeley. Rescue him. “Yes,” he said to himself, “I’ll rescue him for you. I’ll bring him back to you from Tolu, Olivia.” He mumbled and muttered as the fever grew upon him. “I wish all this had never happened,” he said aloud. “You’re goin’ off into the shakes,” said one of the men, putting a blanket round him. “You want to take bark in a sup of rum, sir, and then turn in.” “Every one with a green wound gets the shakes in this country,” said another man. “Now up in Virginia you can go from September to May and never have ’em once.” “There’s a light in the cabin,” said Margaret, with his teeth chattering. “That’s your ship all right, sir. Ahoy, you! _Broken Heart_ ahoy-ah!” “Ahoy, you!” came out of the night. “Is that the _Happy Return_?” “We’re the jolly come-backs.” Bells were beaten from somewhere in the darkness. To Margaret’s throbbing brain the strokes seemed to be violent lights. He thought in his fever that all physical objects were interchangeable, that they all, however indifferent, expressed with equal value (though perhaps to different senses) the infinite intellect that was always One. He thought that the boat was a thought of a thought; and that a ship and a house were much alike, very worthless the pair of them. One should get away from these thoughts of thoughts to thought itself. The _Broken Heart_ loomed large above him. “Send down a chair, Lion,” some one said. “Mr. Margaret’s had a nasty clip.” “Easy now with the chair,” said Cammock’s voice. “Is Mr. Stukeley there?” “He’s swallowed the killick,” said Tucket, with a hard laugh.