Mr. Rowe could no longer attend to his work, but, emerging from the billowy folds of canvas, he cried exultantly:
"We got back so soon because the 'Sally' is a reg'lar flyer! When I sailed with Eliakim I allowed she could go some, but since we've shifted her rig she don't touch the water at all—jest skims over the top like one of them 'ere flyin' fish. Why, lads, she's made as good as eleven knots ever since we parted company with you, an' if that ain't goin' some I'd like to know what you call it?"
"She surely is a swift craft!" Uncle Ben added emphatically, and one had only to look at his face in order to understand that a sailor's love for a beautiful vessel was taking root in his heart. "Did you lads carry a load of lobsters to the Port?"
"Ay, that we did, an' have only been home long enough to pull the pots," Sam replied, at a loss to know how he should break the sad news to the old man. "We had a full cargo, though I'm thinkin' we wouldn't have gone if it hadn't been for Cap'en Doak——"
"Has he been here again?" Uncle Ben asked in alarm.
Now it was Tommy's turn to share in the story-telling, and, taking the old man by the arm, he led him aft, where a view could have been had of the shanty if it had still been standing, saying as he did so:
"I reckon you can see what's been done?"
"What do you mean, lad? What has been done?" Uncle Ben asked impatiently, failing to note the blackened ruins.
"Can you see the shanty?"
A cry of sorrow burst from the old man's lips, and his face suddenly paled as he understood that his home had been reduced to ashes.