Yorke was astounded. What on earth had happened? Had she caught sight of a vessel going down, a boat upset—what?
She began to run down the beach, her small feet touching the big bowlders with the lightness and confidence of familiarity, and once more she cried out in distress.
Yorke strode after her, and gained her side.
"What's the matter?" he shouted above the dull sea roar.
She turned her face to him with a piteous look of entreaty and alarm.
"Dick! It's Dick!" she said.
"Dick! Who—which—where?" he demanded, looking in the direction of her eyes.
"It's a little dog—there!" she answered, quickly, and pointing. "A little black and tan, don't you see him? Ah, he is so small!"
"I see him!" said Yorke. "What's he doing out there? And can't he swim?"
"Yes, oh, yes, but the tide is going out, and he has got too far, and the current is dreadfully strong. Oh, poor, poor Dick! He went out after a piece of wood or something that some one threw."