The Winnebagos shouted with laughter at this description of Katherine’s arrival at the station with the great news. “Sh-h, maybe he’ll tell some more,” said Sahwah, trying to quiet the others down. But the loquacious surfman had moved out of earshot and they heard no more of his tale.
Another voice was speaking now, a crisp voice that held a note of impatience. “No conveyance available to take me to St. Pierre? How annoying! How far did you say it was? Two miles? In this wind—”
The voice broke off, but the speaker moved forward toward the little group behind the bluff. Just then a searchlight that had been set up on the beach fell upon him. It was Judge Dalrymple.
“Papa!” cried Antha, starting up.
The judge whirled around, startled. “Where did you come from?” he asked.
Antha dragged him over to the rest and then there were more exclamations of astonishment that the judge had also been a victim of the wreck.
The night wore away while all the adventures were being told, and the gray dawn saw the last of the rescued passengers finding their friends and relatives in the crowd, while the surfmen gathered up 242 their paraphernalia and piled it into the beach wagon. The wind was abating its force and a weary-eyed procession was setting out in the direction of St. Pierre.
The Winnebagos and Sandwiches were a procession all to themselves, led by the stately judge with a twin hanging on each arm. Behind him came Nyoda and the adoring Winnebagos like Diana surrounded by her maidens, while Katherine stalked in the rear of the parade leading the angel-faced Sandhelo, on whose back she had set a tired youngster.
“What a terrible, wicked wind that was,” said Gladys, looking from the wreck of the magnificent Huronic to the uprooted trees lying everywhere along the edge of the woods.
“But it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” said Hinpoha, as she embraced Nyoda for the hundred and nineteenth time.