The Moth fluttered forward. The waves beat her back. She seemed to submit with meekness, but a second later, seeing her chance, she dodged neatly, and sped on again, so, at last, gaining the quiet water of the little bay.
Mr. Ronald and Sam Slawson, in silence, made her fast to her moorings. In silence, Martha gave Claire into her husband's arms. He wrapped the shaking little figure about, in warm dry coverings, and carried her home, as he would a child.
The second they were out of sight and hearing, a babel of voices rose, Ma's shrill, high treble piping loud above the rest:
"When we saw the tempest gatherin', an' youse out in it, on the deep, an' not a boat could make to get to youse, the fear was in me heart, I didn't have a limb to move."
A burly form shoved her unceremoniously aside,
Joe Harding approached Martha, implanted a sounding kiss on her cheek.
"By gum, you're a cracker-jack, Mrs. Slawson, and no mistake!" he announced.
One by one the little knot of men and women followed suit, Fred Trenholm, Nancy Lentz, Mr. Peckett—all who, by the wireless telegraph that, in the country, flashes the news from house to house, had heard of The Moth's danger, and had come over to help if they could, and—couldn't.
Martha looked from one to the other in surprise.
"Well, what do you think o' that!" she managed to articulate through her chattering teeth, and then could say no more.