While the mixed accommodation was panting on the long grade, Tom Topsail’s punt, Burnt Bay bound, was splashing through a choppy sea, humoured along by a clever hand and a heart that understood her whims. It was blowing smartly; but the wind was none too much for the tiny craft, and she was making the best of it. At this 306 rate––with neither change nor failure of the wind––Tom Topsail would land Archie Armstrong in Burnt Bay long before the accommodation had begun to think of achieving that point in her journey across the island. There was no failure of the wind as the night spent itself; it blew true and fair until the rosy dawn came softly out of the east. The boy awoke from a long doze to find the punt overhauling the first barren islands of the long estuary at the head of which the Burnt Bay settlement is situated.
With the most favourable weather there was a day’s sailing and more yet to be done.
“How’s the weather?” was Archie’s first question.
“Broodin’,” Tom Topsail drawled.
Archie could find no menace in the dawn.
“Jus’ broodin’,” Topsail repeated.
Towards night it seemed that a change and a gale of wind might be hatched by the brooding day. The wind fluttered to the east and blew up a thickening fog.
“We’ve time an’ t’ spare,” said Topsail, in the soggy dusk. “Leave us go ashore an’ rest.”
They landed, presently, on a promising island, and made a roaring fire. The hot tea and the 307 lobster and the hard-bread––and the tales of Topsail––and the glow and warmth of the fire––were grateful to Archie. He fell sound asleep, at last, with his greatcoat over him; and Tom Topsail was soon snoring, too. In the meantime the mixed accommodation, back in the wilderness, had surmounted the grade, had dropped three heavy cars at a way station, and was rattling on her way towards Burnt Bay with an energy and determination that surprised her weary passengers and could only mean that she was bound to make up at least some lost time or explode in the attempt.