Major Campbell longed to die, and courted death.  Frank believed that he should die, and was ready for death.  Grace longed to die, but knew that she should not die till she had found Tom’s belt, and was content to wait.  Willis was of opinion that an “old man must die some day, and somehow,—­as good one way as another;” and all his concern was to run about after his maid, seeing that she did not tire herself, and obeying all her orders with sailor-like precision and cleverness.

And Tom?  He just thought nothing about death and danger at-all.  Always smiling, always cheerful, always busy, yet never in a hurry, he went up and down, seemingly ubiquitous.  Sleep he got when he could, and food as often as he could; into the sea he leapt, morning and night, and came out fresher every time; the only person in the town who seemed to grow healthier, and actually happier, as the work went on.

“You really must be careful of yourself,” said Campbell, at last.  “You carry no charmed life.”

“My dear sir, I am the most cautious and selfish man in the town.  I am living by rule; I have got—­and what greater pleasure?—­a good stand-up fight with an old enemy; and be sure I shall keep myself in condition for it.  I have written off for help to the Board of Health, and I shall not be shoved against the ropes till the Government man comes down.”

“And then?”

“I shall go to bed and sleep for a month.  Never mind me; but mind yourself:  and mind that curate; he’s a noble brick;—­if all parsons in England were like him, I’d—­What’s here now?”

Miss Heale came shrieking down the street.

“Oh, Mr. Thurnall!  Miss Tardrew!  Miss Tardrew!”

“Screaming will only make you ill, too, Miss.  Where is Miss Tardrew?”

“In the surgery,—­and my mother!”

“I expected this,” said Tom.  “The old man will go next.”

He went into the surgery.  The poor girl was in collapse already.  Mrs. Heale was lying on the sofa, stricken.  The old man hanging over her, brandy bottle in hand.

“Put away that trash!” cried Tom; “you’ve had too much already.”

“Oh, Mr. Thurnall, she’s dying, and I shall die too!”

“You! you were all right this morning.”

“But I shall die; I know I shall, and go to hell!”

“You’ll go where you ought; and if you give way to this miserable cowardice, you’ll go soon enough.  Walk out, sir!  Make yourself of some use, and forget your fear!  Leave Mrs. Heale to me.”

The wretched old man obeyed him, utterly cowed, and went out:  but not to be of use:  he had been hopelessly boozy from the first—­half to fortify his body against infection, half to fortify his heart against conscience.  Tom had never reproached him for his share in the public folly.  Indeed, Tom had never reproached a single soul.  Poor wretches who had insulted him had sent for him, with abject shrieks.  “Oh, doctor, doctor, save me!  Oh, forgive me! oh, if I’d minded what you said!  Oh, don’t think of what I said!” And Tom had answered cheerfully, “Tut-tut; never mind what might have been; let’s feel your pulse.”