Rushing to where his uncle sat, tiller in hand, for the Captain would allow no one but himself to guide the Polly out of that “pesky hole,” Ned sang out, “Did you hear that, uncle? Somebody is crying for help out there toward that rock.”
“Oh, nonsense, boy,” replied Capt. Rider, as he gave the tiller a sharp pull to bring the Polly up a point, “guess you was asleep and had a dream.”
“No, uncle, listen; there it is again, ’tis a baby’s cry.”
“Bless my skin, boy, I b’lieve yer right; my hearin’ ain’t extra good, but I do hear su’thin off thar to wind’ard. But what in the world could a baby be doin’ out thar? I don’t see no vessel nor no boat. But we won’t leave no mortal round in this hole to drown.”
“Here, George,” he shouted, “you and Nick get the boat over and see if ye can find whar that distressed creeter is. And Ned, you kin go along to help. I’ll put the Polly’s sheets to wind and jog around so you won’t lose us.”
The tide-ruffled waters splashed and sparkled as the oars, in the hands of the hardy fishermen, rose and fell in unison.
“There, I hear it again,” exclaimed Ned from his seat at the stern of the boat; “it comes right from that rock.”
The oars sent the boat straight toward the huge rock, on whose sides the tide lapped with a soft rhythmic “swish, swish,” gaining slowly, surely. Only a few feet of its slippery top remained exposed, and the water was creeping up inch by inch until soon only a swirl and a fleck of foam would mark the place of the hidden reef.
There on the shelving side of the rock, with the tide lapping her tiny feet, chilled from long exposure and crying bitterly, sat a little girl.
Rough but willing hands soon had the little waif safely in the boat. When they reached the side of the Polly Uncle Peter stood ready to receive the strange charge.