He pawed the dory along, hand over hand, until he reached the Comfort's bow. I heard the thump of the anchor as he dragged it into the dory. Then came the creak and splash of oars. His voice sounded from somewhere ahead.
“Head for the light,” he shouted. “I'm goin' to tow you in.”
“In where?”
“In ashore. That's Mack'rel Island light. My name's Atwood. I'm keeper of it.”
I turned to my passenger.
“It looks,” I said, “as if our voyage was almost over.”
And it was. Mr. Atwood had a tough job on his hands, towing the launch. But the make-shift sail helped some and I did my best to steer in his wake. Miss Colton and I had no opportunity to talk. The gentleman in the dory kept up a running fire of remarks, shouted between grunts, and embroidered with cheerful profanity. We caught fragments of the monologue.
“I swan to man—ugh—I thought ye was thieves, for sartin. Some everlastin', dam—ugh—have been sneakin' out nights and haulin' my lobster pots. Ugh—if I'd caught 'em I was cal'latin' to—ugh—break their—ugh—ugh—This dory pulls like a coal barge—I—Wet through, ain't ye? And froze, I cal'late—Ugh—and hungry, too—Ugh—ugh—My old woman's tendin' light. She—ugh—Here we be! Easy now!”
A low shore loomed black across our bows. Above it the lighthouse rose, a white chalk mark against the sky with a red glare at its upper end. Mr. Atwood sprang overboard with a splash. The launch was drawn in at the end of its anchor rope until its keel grated on the sand.
“Now then!” said our rescuer. “Here we be! Made harbor at last, though I did think I'd crack my back timbers afore we done it. I'll tote the lady ashore. You can wade, can't ye?”