The sailor hesitated, swore, and then, on Cheviot’s word, obeyed. His late guide panting, breathless, appeared with the other men at his heels, all but the Esquimaux with letters to send out. Cheviot thrust them in his pocket.
“Now, Hildegarde.”
“Not both of us,” she said, meeting his eye. “Which?” Each looked deep in that swift instant, neither flinching.
“If you aren’t coming of your own accord—” he said.
“What then?”
He made a sign to the blaspheming sailor. The two lifted her in their arms and carried her through the surf, just as hours before they had carried her out.
“Now, sir,” said the sailor, “in with you.” Cheviot stood with the foam swirling above his long boot tops. “You want me to stay behind?” he called.
“If I could do it myself,” Hildegarde began.
Without a word he turned his back on her, strode out of the water and up the stony beach.
If, upon his return home, Mr. Mar was surprised at the warmth of his reception, he was yet more perplexed to find himself never once called upon to state the value of his Polaris mining interests.