“And here have I been trying to find you among the rocks while I looked at my crab pots. For I said to myself, ‘If Master Harry’s washed up anywhere along the coast, there’s nobody more like to find him than me.’ And you’re not dead after all.”
“No, Poll Perrow,” he said agitatedly, “I’m not dead.”
“Come on back home,” she cried. “I am glad I found you. Master Vine and Miss Louise, oh, they will be glad!”
“Hush, woman!” he gasped, “not a word. No one must know you have seen me.”
“Lor’, and I forgot all about that,” she said in a whisper. “More I mustn’t. There’s the police and Master Leslie and everybody been out in boats trying to find you washed up, you know.”
“And now you’ve found me, and will go and get the reward,” he said bitterly.
“I don’t know nothing about no reward,” said the woman, staring hard at him. “Why, where’s your jacket and weskut? Aren’t you cold?”
“Cold? I’m starving,” he cried.
“You look it. Here, what shall I do? Go and get you something to eat?”
“Yes—no!” he cried bitterly. “You’ll go and tell the police.”