“Come down, men,” Horace cried, as he dived below. “We had no time to light the fire before starting, but a glass of spirits will do you good all round.”
Two or three of the fishermen rowed out as soon as the yacht was moored, and in a few minutes all were ashore.
“Now you had better run up to the house and change, Mr. Horace,” Tom Burdett said. “We will look after the men here and get them some dry things, and put them up amongst us. We have done a big thing, sir, and the Surf has been tried as I hope she will never be tried again as long as we have anything to do with her.”
“All right, Tom! Will you come up with me, captain? There is no one at home but myself, and we will manage to rig you up somehow.”
The captain, however, declined the invitation, saying that he would rather see after his men and put up himself at the public-house on the beach.
“I will come up later, sir, when I have seen everything all snug here.”
Horace had some difficulty in making his way up through the crowd, for both men and women wished to shake hands with him. At last he got through, and, followed by Marco, ran up through the village to the house. Zaimes had been among the crowd assembled to see the Surf re-enter the port; and when Horace changed his things and came down stairs he found a bowl of hot soup ready for him.
“You have given me a nice fright, Mr. Horace,” the Greek said as he entered the room. “I have been scolding Marco, I can tell you.”
“It was not his fault, Zaimes. I made up my mind to go, and told him so, and he had the choice whether he would go or stay behind, and he went.”
“Of course he went,” Zaimes said; “but he ought to have come and told me. Then I should have gone too. How could I have met your father, do you think, if you had been drowned?”