[CHAPTER IX.]
OFFICIAL PERMISSION.
The story told by the stranger did not differ materially from that which the cook had imagined after seeing the overturned gunning-skiff.
The young gentleman, Francis P. Bradford by name, had been paddling around the shore, keeping well within the shadow of the rocks in the hope of getting a good bag of wild ducks when they settled upon the water at sunset. He had begun the voyage from a point two miles or more distant, and approached in such manner that the men who were on watch could not have seen him.
The shallow skiff, which Sam Hardy declared very emphatically “was little better than an egg-shell,” had run upon a submerged rock, and, the swell arising at that instant, overset her, throwing the sportsman into the water.
Encumbered as he was by heavy clothing, and being by no means a skilful swimmer, the sportsman could do no more than keep himself afloat, while the boat was driven by the wind farther and farther from the shore.
Knowing that a life-saving station was near at hand, he shouted for help; but, as has been said, it was impossible to make any very loud outcry, and, rapidly becoming exhausted, he believed death was inevitable until there suddenly appeared on the bluff, to use his own words, “what looked to be a ball of white cotton blown along by the wind.”
“I had no idea it was a dog,” he said continuing the story, “until the fluffy object straightened itself out and began barking shrilly. I am certain the little fellow understood my plight, for when some person called him he ran back a few paces, and then returned yelping and howling until one would have said there was danger the volume of sound would cause him to explode like an overcharged boiler.”
Benny’s eyes sparkled with delight as young Bradford continued to praise Fluff; but an expression of dissatisfaction came over his face when the sportsman declared his intention of leaving with Keeper Downey a sum of money to be expended in purchasing food and dainties for the animal that had been the means of saving his life.
“What’s the matter, Benny?” Sam asked, noting the look on the boy’s face.
“It won’t do at all, sir,” and Benny spoke very decidedly. “Fluff wouldn’t like to be paid for such a thing as that, I’m certain, and besides, if, as Mr. Cushing says, he is a member of the crew, then it’s his business to save life if he can, without thinking of taking money for it.”