Bill insisted on taking him clear down to Sandy Point. When Tom landed, he remarked:
“If you’re not going home, Bill, I’d like to see you at the station for a little while.”
“Oh, I’m not going home,” responded the Barber boy. “There’s that eleven dollars and seventy-five cents to get from that measly cad, Bert Aldrich, you know; and I’m going to stick till I catch him.”
“Forget that, Bill,” advised Tom. “We have about taken out that eleven dollars and seventy-five cents in use of the Beulah. You come down to the tower, as I say. I’ve got something better than eleven dollars and seventy-five cents to interest you in.”
“Have?” propounded Bill, in his rough blunt way. “What is it, now?”
“You come and see.”
“All right.”
“That fellow has a grand streak in him,” ruminated Tom, as the Beulah sped on its course and he made for the station. “He doesn’t seem to have the least conception of his heroic bravery, and never thinks of reward. I’ll give him a surprise.”
Tom set at work the minute he reached the tower. He sent messages to the life-saving station, briefly detailing the event of the night, and a routine report to headquarters. Then he took out the roll of bills the captain of the Olivia had given him.
“One hundred and ninety dollars,” counted Tom,—“and five cents. There, that’s Bill’s share,” and he set aside one hundred dollars. “The nickel we’ll nail up on the wall.”