"And I must come too," insisted Toddie.
"All right," said Fred. "I'll ship the tiller, and you can steer."
"Yes, I'll teer, Fled. Oh, be twick!"
Fred was quick; no boy could have been quicker; and in less than five minutes, impelled by his strong young arms, the cobble was bounding over the rising tide.
Fred had got wet to the waist in launching the boat, but he did not mind that. Something told him there was a precious life to be saved, and he could think of nothing else.
For fully half a mile straight out to the sea ran the rocks and cliffs, ending in a bold and rocky promontory nearly seven hundred feet in height.
Bight along by the rocks rowed Fred, Toddie grasping the tiller in her tiny hands, her anxious, pretty face strained with listening.
Every now and then Fred rested on his oars for a few moments to listen, and ever as he did so, rising high over the screaming of the gulls, they could hear that piteous cry for help.
Quicker and quicker now rowed Fred. He was a good oar, and was warming to his work. No extra finish was there about Fred's rowing, no feathering of oars or any such folly, but a long pull and a strong pull, dipping his blades into the water deep enough to get good purchase, but not an inch deeper, and bending well to every stroke. Right steadily too the lad rowed, so that verily there was music and rhythm 'twixt rowlock and oar.
The clouds had lost their gorgeous colours, and from a rift of blue on the eastern sky one single star looked down.