Father Brisdone bent to his task with a will, and in a fashion that showed how he had more than once handled an oar, while Master Peasegood braced himself up, and held on to his burdens as they dragged behind.
“You see who they are?” he said, as the skiff gathered way, and the water rattled under her bows.
“Yes; one is the man of whom we talked.”
“And the other is old Wat Kilby. I’ll never believe he is drowned,” cried Master Peasegood. “He’s born for quite another fate. Pull steady and hard, man. If my arms are jerked out of the sockets I’ll forgive thee. Ohe—ahoy—hoi—oy,” he shouted to a couple of men on the shore, and as they stopped to gaze others began to collect, so that by the time the side was reached there was plenty of willing aid, and hands ready to bear the two men into the charcoal-shed, where, by Father Brisdone’s orders, blankets were fetched and stimulants, while, under his instructions, strong hands rubbed the icy limbs.
This was continued for a time, and then the founder made a proposal, which was put into effect.
“Four of you, one to the corner of each blanket,” he cried; “and run them down to the little furnace. We can lay them on the hot bricks there.”
“Yes, quickly,” cried Father Brisdone. “The very thing.”
It was done, and the genial heat and the friction liberally applied. At first no change took place, and the founder shook his head; while Sir Mark, as he gazed at the stern, handsome countenance of Culverin Carr, felt that a dangerous rival had been removed from his path.
“We were too late, brother, were we not?” said Master Peasegood, sadly.
“I’ll tell thee, anon,” was the reply, as, with cassock off and sleeves up, Father Brisdone was toiling away, with the perspiration streaming down his forehead.