The White Squall: A Story of the Sargasso Sea — John Shaqi
The White Squall: A Story of the Sargasso SeaHutcheson, John C. (John Conroy)
General
The White Squall: A Story of the Sargasso Sea
Hutcheson, John C. (John Conroy)
Sargasso Sea -- Fiction
"Bress de Lor', him 'peak again!" I heard Jake ejaculate, and then I
noticed his black face behind dad's, while there was another gentleman
there too. The latter now took hold of my hand and felt my pulse, I
suppose, although he didn't ask me to put out my tongue, as he generally
did when he came up to Mount Pleasant specially to prescribe for me!
"Hallo, Doctor Martin!" I exclaimed, recognising him. "What's the
matter with me? I can't rise, or move my legs, or do anything."
"You confounded young rascal!" he rejoined in his hearty voice, "a nice
mess you have got yourself into, alarming us all in this way. What do
you mean by galloping down Constitution Hill as if you were after a pack
of foxhounds? It's a mercy you haven't broken every bone in your body."
"Poor Prince isn't hurt, is he?" I asked abruptly, without answering
him directly.
"No, Mass' Tom," eagerly cried out Jake, glad of saying something to me
in order to show his sympathy; "he berry well, no scrape um knees or
nuffin', he--"
"There, that will do," said Doctor Martin, interrupting the flow of the
good-natured darkey's eloquence, "you mustn't agitate Master Tom now;
he's in a very critical state, and any excitement is bad for him. You'd
better go and see after the horses."
"Me no want agg-agg-tate um, Mass' Doctor," pitifully expostulated Jake,
almost blubbering at the accusation of his possibly wanting to do me
harm, "I'se only glad to hear him 'peak again, dat all;" and he went out
of the room quite crest-fallen.
"Oh, doctor!" I cried, but then, all at once, a sort of sick sensation
came over me. Dad and Doctor Martin seemed to be waltzing round me,
with the furniture and everything else following suit, and I fainted
away again, I fancy; although I could hear their whispering voices, as
of people who were far away in the distance. Then, there was a blank.
When I next opened my eyes, strange to say, I was in my own little bed
at home, with my mother sitting by my side.
I felt very weak, and one of my arms was tied up in bandages, while my
other limbs didn't seem to belong to me; but, at first, I had no
recollection of what had happened.
I could not imagine what was the reason for my being laid up like that;
and, seeing my mother there, I fancied for the moment that I had
overslept myself, as was frequently the case, and that she had come to
call me for breakfast.
"Why, mother," I said, "I'm sorry I'm so late."
"You've been ill, Tom," she replied soothingly, without referring to my
laziness as I expected; "I'm glad, though, you're recovering at last."
"Hi!" I exclaimed, much astonished.
"Yes, my dear, very ill," she repeated.
"Dear me! and for how long?" I asked, in wonder still.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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