In his excitement he actually pushed me out of the shop and I jumped in the cab, without the slightest idea of where I might find the desired nurses.  At the nearest pharmacy, however, I obtained a couple of addresses.  I ’phoned to the hospital but there was none there who could be spared.  On following up my clues I found both nurses away on cases.  More telephoning brought the information that several might be had in a day or two, and finally I called up Simpson & Co., who informed me that the skipper was tearing his hair at the delay.

“He says you’re to return at once.  You can kill the cab-horse if you want to.  He’ll pay for it.”

These were the last words I heard.  I dashed off to the little hotel where I stayed, for my trunk, and soon we were galloping along the peaceful streets, here and there encumbered by pony-carts laden with vast piles of codfish, and finally reached the chandlery.

“Well?” asked the captain, rushing out.

“Not a nurse to be had to-day,” I announced.  “To-morrow or next day several may be disengaged.”

There was an ejaculation excusable under the circumstance and the skipper grabbed my arm.

“I won’t wait a minute,” he said.  “I’ve got a doctor, that’s the main thing, and all the antitoxine in the place.  Come along.”

We jumped in the cab, which drove off rapidly, and in a minute we reached the dock, where the yawl was waiting.  Two of the men grabbed my trunk and put it on board and the skipper tossed a banknote to the driver, without waiting for change, and we were off.

The men pulled towards the yacht, and they must have been watching for us on board for I heard the clanking of the small donkey engine and the anchor-chain stiffened and began to draw in, fast.  We scrambled on board, the trunk was tumbled in, and before the yawl was half way up to the davits we were steaming away.

“Come up on the bridge if you want to, Doctor,” the captain called down to me, civilly.

I accepted his invitation and ran up the steps.  At his side stood a grizzled old man with a seamed, kindly face and the wrinkled eyes of the men who spend their lives searching through fog and darkness.

“Good day, sor,” he said to me.  “You’re a man as is real sore needed at Sweetapple Cove.”

“I hope I may be of service,” I answered.

“Ye will be, God willin’,” he assured me.

By this time we had gathered full speed and were steaming fast between the narrow headlands.  The pilot was dropped a little later, without slackening our way much.  We had passed swiftly by the crowded flakes which clung to the steep, rocky shore, inextricably mixed with battered-looking fish-houses.  As soon as we struck the swelling seas outside we saw many little smacks engaged in fishing.  We bore no canvas, for the wind was against us on the return journey.  Then I noticed that the skipper was looking anxiously ahead, where, at a distance, a low fog-pall was gathering.