Tells of Death and Disaster.  
To bind up Swinton’s wounds, some of which were ugly ones, was the first business of Grummidge, after he had hastily staunched the blood which was flowing copiously from his own cheek. The stout seaman was well able to play the part of amateur surgeon, being a handy fellow, and he usually carried about with him two or three odd pieces of spun-yarn for emergencies—also a lump of cotton-waste as a handkerchief, while the tail of his shirt served at all times as a convenient rag.
 
Having finished the job he looked earnestly at the pale face and closed eyes of his old enemy, and said— “You’ve bin pretty much banged about old chap—eh?”
 
As the wounded man made no reply, Grummidge rose quickly, intending to run to the settlement for help, knowing that no time should be lost. He was hastening away when Swinton stopped him.
 
“Hallo! hold on!” he shouted. Grummidge turned back.
 
“You—you’re not goin’ to leave me, are you?” demanded his enemy, somewhat sternly, “I—I shall die if you leave me here on the cold ice.”
 
An involuntary shudder here bore testimony to the probability of his fear being well grounded.
 
“Swinton,” replied Grummidge, going down on one knee, the more conveniently to grasp the unwounded hand of his foe, “you mistake my c’rackter entirely. Though I’m not much to boast on as a man, I ain’t quite a devil. I was only goin’ to run to Wagtail Bay to start some o’ the boys with a stretcher to fetch ye—an’ it’s my belief that there’s no time to be lost.”
 
“Right you are, Grummidge,” replied the poor man in a faint voice, “so little time that if you leave me here the boys will only find some human beef to carry back, an’ that won’t be worth the trouble.”
 
“Don’t say that, old chap,” returned the other, in a low, gruff voice which was the result of tender feeling. “Keep up heart—bless you, I’ll be back in no time.”
 
“All right,” said Swinton, with a resigned look, “go an’ fetch the boys. But I say, Grummidge, shake hands before you go, I don’t want to carry a grudge agin you into the next world if I can help it. Goodbye.”
 
“No, no, mate, if that’s to be the way of it I’ll stick to ’ee. D’ye think you could manage to git on my back?”
 
“I’ll try.”
 
With much heaving, and many half-suppressed groans from the one, and “heave-ho’s” from the other, Big Swinton was at last mounted on his comrade’s broad shoulders, and the two started for home. It was a long and weary journey, for Grummidge found the road rough and the load heavy, but before night he deposited his old enemy in a bunk in the large room of the settlement and then himself sank fainting on the floor—not, we need scarcely add, from the effect of sentimental feeling, but because of prolonged severe exertion, coupled with loss of blood.
 
Two days later Grummidge sat by the side of Swinton’s bunk. It was early forenoon, and they were alone—all the other men being out on various avocations.
 
Blackboy, the large dog, lay asleep on the floor beside them.
 
Suddenly the dog jumped up, ran to the door, and began to whine restlessly.
 
“Wolves about, I suppose,” said Grummidge, rising and opening the door.
 
Blackboy bounded away in wild haste.
 
“H’m! he seems in a hurry. Perhaps it’s a bear this time. Well, mate, how d’ye feel now?” he added, closing the door and returning to his seat.
 
“Grummidge,” said the sick man, in a low voice, “I’ll never git over this. That seal have done for me. There’s injury somewheres inside o’ me, I feel sure on it. But that’s not what I was going to speak about. I want to make a clean breast of it afore I goes. I’ve been a bad man, Grummidge, there’s no question about that in my own mind, whatever may be in the mind of others. I had even gone the length of making up my mind to murder you, the first safe chance I got, for which, and all else I’ve done and thought agin ye, I ax your pardon.”
 
“You have it” said his friend earnestly. “Thank ’ee. That’s just what I expected, Grummidge. Now what I want to know is, d’ye think God will forgive me?”
 
The seaman was perplexed. Such a question had never been put to him before, and he knew not what to answer. After a few moments’ consideration, he replied—
 
“What you say is true, Swinton. You’ve bin a bad lot ever since I’ve know’d ye. I won’t go for to deny that. As to what the Almighty will do or won’t do, how can I tell? I wish I knew more about such things myself, for I’d like to help you, but I can’t.”
 
Suddenly an idea flashed into his mind and he continued:—
 
“But it do seem to me, Swinton, that if a poor sinner like me is willin’ to forgive ye, ain’t the Almighty likely to be much more willin’?”
 
“There’s somethin’ in that, Grummidge—somethin’ in that,” said the sick man eagerly. Then the hopeful look disappeared as he added slowly, “but I fear, Grummidge, that what you say don’t quite fit my case, for I’ve got a notion that the Almighty must have been willin’ all my life to save me from myself, and that all my life I’ve bin refusin’ to listen to Him.”
 
“How d’ye make that out, boy?”
 
“This way. There’s bin somethin’ or other inside o’ me, as far back as I can remember, that somehow didn’t seem to be me, that has been always sayin’ ‘Don’t’ to me, whenever I was a-goin’ to do a mean thing. Now, I can’t help thinkin’ that it must have bin God that spoke, for a man would never say ‘Don’t’ to himself, an’ then go right off an’ do it, would he?”
 
“That’s more than I can tell,” answered Grummidge. “I remember hearin’ Master Burns a-talkin’ on that point wi’ the cappen, an’ he thought it was conscience or the voice of God.”
 
“Well, conscience or no conscience, I’ve resisted it all my life,” returned the sick man, “an’ it do seem a mean, sneakin’ sort o’ thing to come to the Almighty at the very last moment, when I can’t help myself, an’ say, ‘I’m sorry.’”
 
“It would be meaner to say ‘I’m not sorry,’ wouldn’t it?” returned Grummidge. “But, now I think of it, Master Burns did read one or two things out o’ that writin’ that he’s so fond of, which he says is the Word of God. If it’s true what he says, he may well be fond of it, but I wonder how he has found that out. Anyway, I remember that one o’ the things he read out of it was that the Lamb of God takes away the sins of the world; an’ he explained that Jesus is the Lamb of God, an’ that he stands in our place—takes our punishment instead of us, an’ fulfils the law instead of us.”
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