When he had overseen the job of mooring, the captain went below where the ship’s writer was busy with the freshly connected telephone, ringing up various points of contact to report arrival. Captain Bent waited at the man’s elbow, listening, checking to make certain that the ship had been put in touch with all the offices which should be informed.
It was immediately apparent that the writer had started something special at headquarters of the life-saving service. He was silent, giving attention. After his brief pause he barked:
“Yes, sir! I’ll call Captain Bent.”
The latter reached for the receiver and announced himself. This is what he heard:
“Captain Bent, you’re in the nick o’ time, as usual. Popham Sands station reports a two-master kedged offshore and making a touch-and-go of it. Station has been trying to get their boat off through the rollers, but she has pitch-poled at every try. They’ve fired lines on the chance of working the breeches buoy, but the lines haven’t been handled aboard the schooner. Station phones that the crew acts queer. Glass shows a woman and children aboard. It seems to be a job cut out for you, eh, what?”
“That’s what!” snapped the captain. “Inform the station I’m on the way. Hold on a moment! Does the glass show her name?”
“Yes, sir. She’s the Harvest Home, hailing from Lumbo Island.”
Captain Bent hung up and for an instant bored vacancy with a straight-ahead stare.
“I’ll be damned!” he snorted, leaping up and starting away.
Crossing the ward room, he saw the executive officer dealing with a man delegated by suppliants for shore leave.