"Toby, you little fool, stop it--stop it, do you hear?--and go below!"

The words held a queer urgency. He raised himself as he uttered them,
seeking to free his hand though with all gentleness from the clinging
clasp.

"Get up, boy!" he said. "Get up and go to bed! What? Oh, don't cry! Pull
yourself together! Toby, do you hear?"

Toby lifted a white, strained face. His eyes looked enormous in the dim
light. "Yes, sir. All right, sir," he jerked out, and stumbled trembling
to his feet. "I know I'm a fool, sir. I'm sorry. I can't help it. No one
was ever decent to me--till you came. I--shall just go under now, sir."

"Oh, stop it!" Saltash spoke almost violently. "Can't you see--that's
just what I want to prevent? You don't want to go to the devil, I
suppose?"

Toby made a passionate gesture that was curiously unboylike. "I'd go to
hell and stay there for ever--if you were there!" he said.

"Good God!" said Saltash.

He got up in his sudden fashion and moved away, went to the rail and
stood there for a space with his face to the rippling sheen of water.
Finally he turned and looked at the silent figure waiting beside his
chair, and a very strange smile came over his dark features. He came
back, not without a certain arrogance, and tapped Toby on the shoulder.