"Edna," said the elder lady, "I have liked you ever since I have known you, and I expect to like you as long as I live, but I must say that, for an intelligent person, you have the most colorless character I have ever seen. Whatever comes to pass, you receive it as quietly and calmly as if it were just what you expected and what you happened to want, and yet, as long as I have known you, you have not had anything you wanted."
"You are mistaken there," said Edna. "I have got something I want."
"And what may that be?" asked the other.
"Captain Horn," said Edna.
Mrs. Cliff laughed a little scornfully. "If you are ever going to get any color out of your possession of him," she said, "he's got to very much change the style of his letter-writing. He has given you his name and some of his money, and may give you more, but I must say I am very much disappointed in Captain Horn."
Edna turned suddenly upon her companion. "Color!" she exclaimed, but she did not finish her remark, for Ralph came running aft.
"A queer thing has happened," said he: "a sailor is missing, and he is one of the men who went on shore for us. They don't know what's become of him, for the mate is sure he brought all his men back with him, and so am I, for I counted them to see that there were no stragglers left, and all the people who were in that boat came on board. They think he may have fallen overboard after the ship sailed, but nobody heard a splash."
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mrs. Cliff, "and he was one of those who came to save us!"
At this moment a wet and bedraggled sailor, almost exhausted with a swim of nearly a mile, staggered upon the beach, and fell down upon the sand near the spot from which the Mary Bartlett's boat had recently been pushed off. When, an hour before, he had slipped down the side of the ship, he had swum under water as long as his breath held out, and had dived again as soon as he had filled his lungs. Then he had floated on his back, paddling along with little but his face above the surface of the waves, until he had thought it safe to turn over and strike out for land. It had been a long pull, and the surf had treated him badly, but he was safe on shore at last, and in a few minutes he was sound asleep, stretched upon the sand.
Toward the end of the afternoon he awoke and rose to his feet. The warm sand, the desiccating air, and the sun had dried his clothes, and his nap had refreshed him. He was a sharp-faced, quick-eyed man, a Scotchman, and the first thing he did was to shade his face with his hands and look out over the sea. Then he turned, with a shrug of his shoulders and a grunt.