They ran downhill toward the creek, calling as they went, but getting no answer.
“But the wreck!” exclaimed the Chief Officer. “It’s out of reason!”
“Hi! What was that?”
“Oh, my good Lord,” groaned one of the volunteers, “it’s the crake, master! It’s Langona crake calling the drowned!”
“Hush, you fool! Listen—I thought as much! Light a flare. Mr. Saul—he’s out there calling!”
The first match spluttered and went out. They drew close around the Chief Officer while he struck the second to keep off the wind, and in those few moments the child’s wail reached them distinctly across the darkness.
The flame leaped up and shone, and they drew back a pace, shading their eyes from it and peering into the steel-blue landscape which sprang on them out of the night. They had halted a few yards only from the cliff, and the flare cast the shadow of its breast-high fence of tamarisks forward and almost half-way across the creek, and there on the sands, a little beyond the edge of this shadow, stood the child.
They could even see his white face. He stood on an island of sand around which the tide swirled in silence, cutting him off from the shore, cutting him off from the wreck behind.
He did not cry any more, but stood with his crutch planted by the edge of the widening stream, and looked toward them.
And Taffy looked at George.