"Good evening, McCallum."
"Good evening, sir; it blows a bit fresh to-night."
"Anything startling?"
"Not so far as I knows of, sir; all the boats 'ave come in."
"That's something to be thankful for," remarked my father. "But has anything been seen or heard of Mr. Crosbie's 'Dorothy'? I believe she is making a passage from Falmouth to-day."
"Mr. Crosbie ain't no mug at the game," replied the man. "Strikes me he's either put back or run into Mevagissey."
"I hope so, too," rejoined my father; and the conversation, which had been conducted by sheer strength of lungs, owing to the howling of the wind, ceased, and we relapsed into complete silence.
From our position we could see both within and without the harbour; and what a contrast! Within the harbour, though the waves caused a nasty "lop," the twinkling lights of Fowey, and the oscillating anchor-lamps of scores of weather-bound vessels in the Pool, caused quite a glare in the dark, rain-laden sky; while seaward, as far as the mirk allowed one to see, was one confused tumble of white-crested waves, which, with a noise that was heard above the singing of the wind, hurled themselves against the rockbound cliffs, sending up columns of white spray, that burst in hissing showers over our shelter, 200 feet above the sea. Not the faintest glimmer of a ship's light was visible, and only the blinking eye of St. Catherine's gave out its warning red flash to break the awful desolation of the raging waves.
"Bitterly cold for May," shouted my father into my ear. "We are doing no good by stopping here."
"Good-night, McCallum," he added, turning towards the coastguardsman; but at that moment a pale blue light flashed upwards in the darkness.