“Here! you there, sir! the nearest boat—quick, pull!” roared the detective in stentorian tones. “Have you no light?”
“Ay, ay,” came back; and a lantern that had been hidden under a tarpaulin coat shone out, dimly showing the boat’s whereabouts.
“That’s right; pull, my lads, off here. Man overboard off the rocks. This way.”
An order was given in the boat, and her course was altered.
“No, no,” cried the officer; “this way, my lads, this way.”
“We know what we’re about,” came back.
“Yes, yes; they know,” said Uncle Luke, hoarsely. “Let them be; the current sets the way they’ve taken. He’s right out there by now.”
The old man’s arm was dimly seen pointing seawards, but the detective was not convinced.
“It’s a trick to throw me on the wrong scent,” he said excitedly. “Here, you”—to one of the local police—“why don’t you speak?”
“Mr Luke Vine’s right, sir; he knows the set o’ the tide. The poor lad’s swept right out yonder long ago, and Lord ha’ mercy upon him, poor chap. They’ll never pick him up.”