His first instinct was to dart back into the cavern, but in the dread that the slightest movement or sound would attract attention, he remained fixed to the spot, while the figure waded knee deep to another place, and seemed to be searching there, for an arm was plunged deeply into the water, a rope raised, and after a good deal of hauling, a dripping basket was drawn out and a door opened at the side, and flapping its tail loudly, a good-sized lobster was brought out and deposited in the basket the figure bore upon her back.
“Mother Perrow!” exclaimed Harry beneath his breath, and then an excited mental debate took place. “Dare he trust her, or would she betray him?”
Fear was mastering famine, when Poll Perrow, after rebaiting her lobster pot, was about to throw it back into deep water, but dropped it with a splash, and stood staring hard at the shivering man.
“Master Harry!” she exclaimed, and, basket on back, she came through water and over rock toward him with wonderful agility for a woman of her age. “Why, my dear lad,” she cried in a voice full of sympathy, “is it you?”
“Yes, Poll,” he said tremulously, “it is I.”
“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 forget 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.”