“What?”
“I should laugh if this place were to turn out to be Gaspé, after all.”
“O, there’s no doubt about the place. It must be Newfoundland.”
“Hallo!”
This exclamation came from Arthur. He said no more, but pointed in silence, while Tom looked eagerly in that direction.
On the beach, about a quarter of a mile away, they saw a moving figure. It was a man. He was running along with irregular steps, waving his arms in the air in a wild way, and evidently trying to attract their attention.
They at once headed the boat in nearer to the shore, so as to meet him as soon as possible. As they neared the shore the man neared them. The beach was smooth, and his staggering, irregular steps could not have been caused by the rough ground, while his wild gesticulations seemed unaccountable.
“He must be drunk,” said Tom.
Arthur said nothing.
The boat grounded, and the next moment the man reached the spot. No sooner had he come up to them than he fell on his knees, and, grasping the bows of the boat, bowed his head, and sobbed convulsively.