It was enough. The spell was broken. A wild cry burst forth from the boys, and with loud, long shouts of joy they rushed down the bank, and over the beach, back to their boat. The captain was as quick as any of them. In his enthusiasm he forgot his rheumatism. There was a race, and though he was not even with Bruce and Bart, he kept ahead of Pat, and Arthur, and Phil, and old Wade.
Hurrah!
And hurrah again!
Yes, and hurrah over and over; and many were the hurrahs that burst from them as they raced over the rocky beach.
Then to tumble into the boat, one after another, to grasp the oars, to push her off, to head her for the schooner, and to dash through the water on their way back, was but the work of a few minutes.
The row to the schooner was a tedious one to those impatient young hearts. But as they drew nearer, they feasted their eyes on the figure of the new comer, and the last particle of doubt and fear died away. First, they recognized the dress—the familiar red shirt. Tom had worn a coat and waistcoat ashore at Hillsborough on that eventful day; but on reaching the schooner, he had flung them off, and appeared now in the costume of the "B. O. W. C." This they recognized first, and then his face was revealed—a face that bore no particular indication of suffering or privation, which seemed certainly more sunburnt than formerly, but no thinner.
Soon they reached the vessel, and clambered up; and then with what shouts and almost shrieks of joy they seized Tom! With what cries and cheers of delight they welcomed him back again, by turns overwhelming him with questions, and then pouring forth a torrent of description of their own long search!
Captain Corbet stood a little aloof. His face was not so radiant as the faces of the boys. His features were twitching, and his hands were clasped tight behind his back. He stood leaning against the mainmast, his eyes fixed on Tom. It was thus that he stood when Tom caught sight of him, and rushed up to shake hands.
Captain Corbet grasped Tom's hand in both of his. He trembled, and Tom felt that his hands were cold and clammy.
"My dear boys," he faltered, "let us rejice—and—be glad—for this my son—that was dead—is alive agin—"