Over the cobblestones, down the steep hill to the docks they rattled.
“There he is. Tall fellow beside that pile of crates,” said the man who had been peering out the crack between the doors, which had been propped partly open to give him more air.
“Bill!” he shouted.
The fisherman turned at the sound of his name, and Jack beckoned. With three or four strides he was beside the wagon.
“What’s wanted?”
Before the boy could reply, the injured man called out—“I’m in here, Bill. Had a smash.”
The newcomer, without a word, stepped to the back of the wagon and stuck his head in. After a short conversation, during which the Wistmores stood beside the horses’ heads, he slid the invalid part way out, put his powerful arms under him, and picked him up like a child.
“Much obliged to you for bringing him back,” he said awkwardly to Jack; then strode away down the wharf; but before they were out of earshot, the injured man called back over the other one’s shoulder—“You’ve won!”
“Well, of all strange experiences,” exclaimed Desiré.
“Whatever did he mean?” asked Priscilla.