“Is you sure?”
“’Tis not the way she blows, zur!”
“’Tis surely not she,” the skipper mused. “In the sou’west she’d be out of her course. Hark!”
Once more the long, hoarse roar broke the silence, but now rising again and again, agonized, like a cry for help.
“Dear Lard!” skipper Tommy cried, putting his hands to his face. “’Tis a big steamer on the Thirty Black Devils!”
“A wreck!” shouted Jacky, leaping for his jacket. “A wreck! A wreck!”
Distraction seized the skipper. “’Tis a wreck!” he roared. “My boots, lads! Wreck! Wreck!”
We lads went mad. No steamer had been wrecked on the coast in our time. There were deeds to do! There was salvage to win!
“Wreck!” we screamed. “Wreck! Wreck! Wreck!”
Then out we four ran. It was after dark. The vault was black. But the wind had turned the fog to thin mist. The surrounding hills stood disclosed—solid shadows in the night. Half a gale was blowing from the sea: it broke over the hills; it swooped from the inky sky; it swept past in long, clinging gusts. We breasted it heads down. The twins raised the alarm. Wreck! Wreck! Folk joined us as we ran. They were in anxious haste to save life. They were gleeful with the hope of salvage. What the sea casts up the Lord provides! Wreck! Wreck! Far-off cries answered us. The cottage windows were aglow. Lanterns danced over the flakes. Lights moved over the harbour water. Wreck! Wreck! On we stumbled. Our feet struck the road with thud and scrape. Our lanterns clattered and buzzed and fluttered. Wreck! Wreck! We plunged down the last hill and came gasping to my father’s wharf.