Like an old hound scenting disaster Lost Man himself loomed unexpectedly in the doorway. With his great tunic-swathed height, his sharply dilating nostrils, he seemed bristling suddenly with some strange new sort of authority. For a single instant his beetling brows glowered to the stark, startled faces around him. Then out of—God knows what stained-glass memories— out of God knows what chanceled associations he burst forth 221 resonantly into the opening lines of the Episcopal burial service.
"'I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth——'"
With a gasp from his own frazzled nerves Jaffrey Bretton pushed mercilessly past him.
"Oh, cut it out, Lost Man," he cried. "This isn't death—yet! Kaire's man knows just what to do, and has got a chance to do it—probably—even one or more times yet! Go get the launch ready, you and Alliman! If there's nothing here we can do, we'll go quick!"
"Where?" stared Lost Man.
"Back to our own island, you idiot!" snapped Bretton. "And pack up everything we've got! And catch that coast steamer in the morning! We're going North," he paled, "as fast as we can get there! I want a brain specialist for my little girl!" Stumbling along after Lost Man with his babbling burden in his arms, he stepped down into the waiting launch.
Already with his gnarled calloused hands Alliman the outlaw was 222 wringing strange cries from the reluctant engine. Up from a somber shadow in the bow the brown khaki lady lifted a startled but unquestioning face.
"Let me hold her!" insisted Lost Man. "I know how to hold 'em—the little lambs!" Like some vaguely parodied picture of "The Good Shepherd" the old man gathered the little limp figure into his arms, and retreated to the stern of the boat.
Half resentful, half relieved, Bretton hesitated an instant and then merged himself into the shadowy bow.
With a grunt of triumph Alliman started the launch gulfward. With creaks and groans and puffy sighs the old engine rallied to the task. Except for the chop of waves against the bow, the trickle of tides at the stern, no other sound broke the black silence except Lost Man's crooning monotone.