The other members of the crew were engaged outside in the effort to save such wreckage as the yet angry waters rolled in toward the shore.
A bright-looking little fellow was this survivor of the terrible disaster, although not seen at his best while clad only in his undergarments, and shivering in the frosty air despite the volumes of heat sent out by the glowing stove. The mercury in the thermometer had fallen below the zero mark, and the wind found every crevice and crack in the building, situated as it was on the open shore where nothing in the way of a shelter broke the force of the northeast gales.
“Well, lad, you’re looking bright this morning,” the keeper cried in a cheery tone. “Hungry?”
“I can take my share of breakfast when it’s ready, and I guess Fluff won’t turn up his nose at warm coffee.”
“A dog drinking coffee!” Sam Hardy cried, with a laugh that had in it a note of the tempest.
“Yes, sir; Mrs. Clark always gave him a little out of her own cup. Has she come ashore yet?”
“No, lad,” the keeper replied gravely. “None save you and the dog lived through last night.”
“They can’t be dead!” the boy cried in alarm, and as the full meaning of the words dawned upon him, the tears came. “Surely some of the men would have looked out for Mrs. Clark! She was coming ashore the same way I did.”
“Had they lashed her to a spar before you were set adrift?”
“The captain had everything ready: but I was tied on first, ’cause she wanted to be certain Fluff would be tucked inside my coat properly. Surely she’ll come soon?”