They lost sight of his red coat among the ridges. Two or three— Taffy amongst them—ran along the upper ground for a better view.
“Well, this beats all!” panted the foremost.
Below them George came into view again, heading now at full gallop for a group of men gathered by the shore of the creek, a good half-mile from its mouth. And beyond—midway across the sandy bed where the river wound—lay the hull of a vessel, high and dry; her deck, naked of wheelhouse and hatches, canted toward them as if to cover from the morning the long wounds ripped by her uprooted masts.
The men beside him shouted and ran on, but Taffy stood still. It was monstrous—a thing inconceivable—that the seas should have lifted a vessel of three hundred tons and carried her half a mile up that shallow creek. Yet there she lay. A horrible thought seized him. Could she have been there last night when he had drawn the sailor ashore? And had he left four or five others to drown close by, in the darkness? No, the tide at that hour had scarcely passed half-flood. He thanked God for that.
Well, there she lay, high and dry, with plenty to attend to her. It was time for him to discover the damage done to the light-house plant and machinery, perhaps to the building itself. In half an hour the workmen would be arriving.
He walked slowly back to the house, and found Humility preparing breakfast.
“Where is he?” Taffy asked, meaning the sailor. “In bed?”
“Didn’t you meet him? He went out five minutes ago—I couldn’t keep him—to look for his brother, he said.”
Taffy drank a cupful of tea, took up a crust, and made for the door.
“Go to bed, dear,” his mother pleaded. “You must be worn out.”