But it died away in a groan.
"It was his hat—only his hat, poor fellow. And they've given it up and are coming back without him!" sighs the woman who had been the first to raise the alarm.
Every face wears a look of sadness for the few moments of silent waiting as the rowers slowly return.
They gain the deck of the Milwaukee; one of them—a lad of nineteen or twenty, a rough, hardy sailor—comes forward with a subdued manner—in strange contrast to his accustomed rude hilarity—lips white and quivering, tears in his manly eyes.
"Mother, mother," he says, low and huskily, drawing near this woman with tottering steps, "don't—don't take it too hard. I—I couldn't bear to see you. I did my best; we all did; but we couldn't find him; and here's his hat. It—it was little Billy."
"My boy! mine! my little one!" she shrieked, and fell fainting into the arms of her elder son.
There was not a dry eye among the spectators, and as the sad story spread to the other vessels many a tremulous tone and falling tear attested the pity and sympathy of those who told the tale and those who listened to it.
"But how did it happen?" queried one and another; and the answer was, "He was jumping back and forth from one vessel to another, and fell in between the Milwaukee and the steamer; and it is conjectured that he must have been struck by the wheel, as he did not come up again."