They had not been long under the lee of the pilchard-house before they saw Will return and stand with Josh and some more of the fishermen just beyond the reach of the waves. Then first one and then another made a rush at what looked at a distance like a piece of wood, tossed here and there by the great billows. Into this they struck the boat-hook, and ran with it shoreward, the piece of wood which looked so small proving to be a deal that was a pretty good weight for two men to carry.
Quite a stack of these were dragged from the waves, some perfectly uninjured, others snapped in two, others again twisted and torn asunder, leaving long ragged threads of fibre, while others again were regularly beaten by the waves and rocks, so that the ends were like bunches of wood gnawed by some monster into shreds.
They went back to dinner and returned towards evening, Uncle Abram giving it as his opinion that the worst of the gale was not over yet, and pointing to the glass that hung in the passage for corroboration.
“Lower than she’s been for months,” said the old gentleman. “I hope no ship won’t get caught in the bay.”
Boom, bom!
“What’s that?” cried Mr Temple quickly.
“It’s what I hoped would not happen, sir,” said the old man, taking off his hat; “a ship in distress, and may—”
He did not finish his sentence aloud, but closed his eyes, and they saw his lips move for a few moments, before, clapping on his hat again, he cried:
“Let’s go down to the beach, sir. ’Tisn’t likely, but we might be able to do some good. Ah! there she is speaking again.”
Boom, bom!