Taffy glanced at him, but could see little more than the back of a bald head above the blankets.
“Where’s the ship?” he asked.
“Gone,” answered the Vicar, coming at that moment from the inner room where his books were. “She must have broken up in less than ten minutes after she struck the Island—parted and gone down in six fathoms of water.”
“And the men? Was father there?” It bewildered Taffy that all this should have happened while he was sleeping.
“There was no time to fix the rocket apparatus. She was late in making her distress signals. But I doubt if anything could have been done. She went down too quickly.”
“But—” Taffy’s gaze wandered to the bald head.
“He was washed clean over the ridge where she struck, and swept into Innis Pool—one big wave carried him into safety—one man out of six.”
“Hallelujah!” cried the rescued man facing round in his chair. “Might ha’ been scat like an egg-shell, and here I be shoutin’ praises!” Taffy saw that he was a clean-shaven little fellow, with puckered cheeks and two wisps of grey hair curling forward from his ears.
Mr. Raymond frowned. “I am sure,” said he, “you ought not to be talking so much.”
“I will sing and give praise, sir, beggin’ you pardon, with the best member that I have. Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is offended and I burn not? Hallelujah! A-men!”