“Both boats, sir?” hesitated Blake. “We’re short-handed to-day, for Ford has a crippled arm that would be no good in this surf.”
“I’ll take his place,” said Father Tom, eagerly. “I’ve shot the rapids with my Indian guides many a time. I’ll take Ford’s place.”
“Think twice of it, sir,” was Blake’s warning. “You are risking your life.”
“I know,” was the brief answer. “That’s my business as well as yours, my friends; so I’ll take my chance.”
“There talks a man!” said the keeper, heartily. “Give him a sou’wester, and let him take his chances, as he asks, in Ford’s place.”
And, in briefer time than we can picture, the two lifeboats were swung out of their shelter in the very teeth of the driving gale, and manned by their fearless crews, including Father Tom Rayburn, who, muffled in a huge sou’wester, took his place with the rest; and all pushed into the storm.
At Last Island all hope seemed gone.
“One last shot, my boy!” daddy had said, as the gun dropped from his shaking hand. “And no one has heard,—no one could hear in the roar of the storm.”
“Oh, they could,—they could!” murmured Freddy. “God could make them hear, daddy,—make them hear and come to help us. And I think He will. I have prayed so hard that we might not be drowned here all alone in the storm. You pray, too, daddy,—oh, please pray!”