Jackie laughed—laughed amid that waste of waters on the wave-washed derelict.
“Oh, how nice, Tom!” he said. “I want you to hold me, and tell me about how daddy will be surprised.”
“Poor little kid,” murmured the sailor who held the little boy, as he passed him over to Tom when a lightning flash came.
Tom was now getting his strength and wind back after his long swim. He was still soaking wet, but the rain had now ceased, and the wind was warm. If the sea went down enough so that the waves would not wash up over the derelict they might all get dry. And then the morning would come. But what would it bring?
Tom gathered Jackie in his arms, and the boy, with a contented sigh, snuggled up to our hero’s shoulders.
“Now tell me about daddy,” he commanded. “Tell me about the joke on him.”
Tom started to comply, forcing himself to make a joke out of what he feared would be a grim discovery in the daylight. The boy’s father was probably among those drowned when the ship foundered. But little Jackie must not know it. So Tom made up a fanciful little story—telling it while the lightning flashed and the thunder rumbled, and while the derelict rose and fell on the long swells.
“Move back here, mate,” said one of the sailors in a low voice. “It’s higher, and more out of the water.”
He moved forward to make a place for Tom, and the lad noticed that the man took a position where he would be more exposed to the waves than at first.