“I thought you was,” he said. “You looked that way. Well, I can tell you where she is. She's stuck fast in the reeds at the lower end o' Peter's Pint.”
“Where's that?” said I.
“Oh, it's about a mile furder up. I seed her a-driftin' up with the tide—big flood tide, to-day—and I thought I'd see somebody after her, afore long. Anything aboard?”
Anything!
I could not answer the man. Anything, indeed! I hurried on up the river without a word. Was the boat a wreck? I scarcely dared to think of it. I scarcely dared to think at all.
The man called after me and I stopped. I could but stop, no matter what I might hear.
“Hello, mister,” he said, “got any tobacco?”
I walked up to him. I took hold of him by the lapel of his coat. It was a dirty lapel, as I remember even now, but I didn't mind that.
“Look here,” said I. “Tell me the truth, I can bear it. Was that vessel wrecked?”
The man looked at me a little queerly. I could not exactly interpret his expression.