IN WHICH I RESCUE THE COOK
“WHAT’S that?” said Peterson sharply—“you didn’t obey orders?”
“Well, I thought he was in the other boat,” explained Willy, hanging his head.
“You’ll get your time,” said the old man quietly, “soon as we get to the railroad—and you’ll go home by rail.”
“What are you trying to do, Mr. Harry?” he demanded of me, a moment later. I was looking at the long boat.
“Well, he’s part of the boat’s company,” said I, “and we’ve got to save him, Peterson.”
“What’s that?” asked Helena now coming up—and then, “Why, John, our cook, isn’t here, is he?” She, too, looked at the long boat and at the sea. “How horrible!” she said. “Horrible!”
“What does he mean to do?” she demanded now of Peterson in turn. The old man only looked at her.
“Surely, you don’t mean to go out there again,” she said.
I turned to them both, half cold with anger. “Do you think I’d leave him out there to die, perhaps? It was my own fault, not to see him in the boat.”