“No, ye don’t! Me first!” And Old-Hab swarmed up through the opening. Whatever he expected to encounter, his face was white with anything but fear. “You!” he exclaimed, lowering his gun. “You! Where’s—Thank God, ’t any rate!”
Behind him the girl’s head rose, gleaming first in the sun, then—as she found Miles—with an inward and more vital splendor. They did not speak, or need to; for in one bright instant of surprise each saw the other restored and exalted.
Behind her, in turn, came huddling upward the faces of the men, some red, some pale, but all wide-eyed, gaping, and contorted, like faces of hunters at the mouth of a lair.
“What in—Where’s he gone?” they shouted.
“Got away,” called Miles. “Down a rope, and pulled it after!”
The crowding heads ducked in a single impulse, the fury of the chase. “Down ag’in, boys! Out from under, there! Git along!” roared the voices; and below them, a seafaring bass, bawling in the deaf ears of Lazy-Hab, “Slid down a rope! Ketch him yit!”
Slow and inquisitive, the teamster moved toward the window, leaned in the open section, and then suddenly turned, with a grin.
“Look a-here, Mile,” he said, pointing a stubby finger.
Far below, the sailor was racing straight down the beach. His red stockings twinkled as he leaped the rocks, scurried over the wet sand, and, running out knee-deep, fell forward with a great splash. His arm flailed the water in desperate over-hand strokes; his head became the black point in a widening arrow-head of ripples.
“Let ’im go,” said Old-Hab stolidly. “We done our part. Good riddance, bad rubbage.”