Some time after, the Relief—happily named—cast anchor a half-mile from land and two boats put off from her side. The survivors were quickly within them, and they were about putting off again when the mate of the Relief said:
"Are you all here?"
"Yes, yes," was the impatient reply of Mr. Tiflings, the man who had sold the suit of clothes to Mr. Yard, "don't wait any longer. I shall lose $500 by not being in San Francisco to-day."
"But they are not all here," interrupted Mr. Yard, in some excitement. "There are two boys in charge of an Irishman that are missing."
"Where are they?" asked the mate.
"They went back from the shore some time ago. I do not think they can be at any great distance."
"Perhaps if you called to them they might hear you."
Mr. Yard sprung out upon the beach, ran to and mounted a goodly-sized rock, and shouted at the top of his voice. He called again and again, and listened intently, but there was no response.
All this time Mr. Tiflings sat leaning his head forward and nervously beating a tattoo upon the side of the boat with his long, thin fingers. Occasionally he glanced at the "foolish" Mr. Yard, and muttered:
"What nonsense! What valuable time we are losing by his childishness! Time is too precious to fritter away in this manner!"