The “Horseshoe” was a circular reef which made out from the main shore five or six hundred yards from the station, and the cook ran with all speed across the bluff, with the idea that he might arrive there in advance of the boat.
His legs were no match for the life savers’ arms, however, and when he gained the cliff which overlooked the reef the crew were dragging the body of a man over the surf-boat’s rail, while a light gunning-skiff, overturned, a short distance away, was sufficient evidence as to the cause of the disaster.
“Some greenhorn out here alone, sneaking along the shore hoping to bag a few ducks just at sunset, has come near paying dearly for the sport,” the cook muttered in an angry tone. “After two or three more accidents of the same kind, sportsmen from the city will begin to understand, I hope, that such fun is dangerous.”
It was the third mishap of a similar nature that season, and in one case the venturesome hunter had lost his life, therefore the cook might well be excused for losing his temper over such carelessness.
When he returned to the station the half-drowned man had been carried into the building, but he still retained sufficient consciousness to understand how his rescue had been brought about, and the cook heard him say to Tom Downey:
“If it hadn’t been for your toy dog I should have drowned, for I’d swallowed so much salt water that it was impossible to make a very loud noise.”
“Yes, I reckon you can set it down as a fact that Fluff C. Foster saved your life, mister, and from this out he, as well as his master, is a member of this ’ere crew if I can bring it about!” Joe Cushing said emphatically, as he emptied fully half the contents of the sugar-bowl into a saucer and gave it to Fluff, who was dancing to and fro, wagging his white tail furiously, as if calling attention to the fact that even a “toy” dog might be of some service in the world.
