A few minutes later Boldrick was lying in Mr. Devlin's office.
Ill luck for Viking in the hour of her success. Phil's shattered hulk is
drifting. The masts have gone by the board, the pilot from the captain's
side. Only the man's "unconquerable soul" is on the bridge, watching the
craft dip at the bow till the waters, their sport out, should hugely
swallow it.
We were all gathered round. Phil had asked to see the lad who, by
neglecting the machinery for a moment, had wrecked his life. "My boy," he
said, "you played an ugly game. It was a big mistake. I haven't any
grudge agen you, but be glad I'm not one that'd haunt you for your cussed
foolishness. . . . There, now, I feel better; that's off my mind!"
"If you're wanting to show remorse or anything," he continued, "there's
my friend, Mr. Roscoe, The Padre--he's all right, you understand!--Are
you there? . . . Why don't you speak?" He stretched out his hand. The lad
took it, but he could not speak: he held it and sobbed.
Then Phil understood. His brow wrinkled with a sudden trouble. He said:
"There, never mind. I'm dying, but it isn't what I expected.
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