It was indeed a goodly night, and Reginald slept to-night. The incubus Love had fled away.
Chapter Twelve.
“I say, Cap,” said Mr Hall, “I should Maroon a Fellow like that!”
While the whole countryside—ay, and the Granite City itself—were thrilled with awe and horror at the brutal murder of poor unoffending Craig Nicol, the Wolverine was making her way on the wings of a delightful ten-knot breeze to the Isle of Madeira.
Reginald had ascertained that there was nothing very serious the matter with Mr and Mrs Hall. They were run down, however, very much with the gaieties of Paris and London, to say nothing of New York, and thought rightly that a long sea voyage would be the best thing to restore them.
Madeira at last! The beach, with its boulders or round sea-smoothed stones, was a difficult one to land upon. The waves or breakers hurled these stones forward with a hurtling sound that could be heard miles and miles away, then as quickly sucked them back again. Nevertheless, the boat was safely beached, and there were men with willing hands and broad shoulder to carry Mr and Mrs Hall and daughter safely on to dry land.
Reginald was sure of foot, and lifting Matty in his arms as she crowed with delight, he bore her safe on shore. The great Newfoundland despised a boat, and hardly was she well off the yacht ere he leaped overboard with a splash. And he also landed, shaking himself free of gallons of water, which made rainbows and halos around him. He drenched his master pretty severely. But it was a fine joke to Oscar, so, grinning and laughing as only this breed can, he went tearing along the beach and back again at the rate of fifteen knots an hour. When he did come back, he licked his master’s hand and little Matty’s face. “Nothing like a good race,” he seemed to say, “to set the blood in motion after a long bath.”