her boy.
“How d’you suppose he could ever stand it?” she cried indignantly to Cheyne, who had said nothing at all.
“It was horrible—horrible! We shouldn’t have come. It’s wrong and wicked! It—it isn’t right! Why—why couldn’t they put these things in the papers, where they belong? Are you better, darling?”
That made Harvey very properly ashamed.
“Oh, I’m all right, I guess,” he said, struggling to his feet, with a broken giggle. “Must ha’ been something I ate for breakfast.”
“Coffee, perhaps,” said Cheyne, whose face was all in hard lines, as though it had been cut out of bronze. “We won’t go back again.”
“Guess ’twould be ’baout’s well to git daown to the wharf,” said Disko. “It’s close in along with them Dagoes, an’ the fresh air will fresh Mrs. Cheyne up.”
Harvey announced that he never felt better in his life; but it was not till he saw the We’re Here , fresh from the lumper’s hands, at Wouverman’s wharf, that he lost his all-overish feelings in a queer mixture of pride and sorrowfulness. Other people—summer boarders and suchlike—played about in catboats or looked at the sea from pier-heads; but he understood things from the inside—more things than he could begin to think about. None the less, he could have sat down and howled because the little schooner was going off. Mrs. Cheyne simply cried and cried every step of the way and said most extraordinary things to Mrs. Troop, who “babied” her till Dan, who had not been “babied” since he was six, whistled aloud.
And so the old crowd—Harvey felt like the most ancient