We ran up beside her and looked out.
The tug,—for such it was,—was coming in at a great rate on the crest of the storm, beam on. Water was breaking over her continuously as she drove, and drove,—a battered, beaten object,—straight for The Ghoul.
We could see three men clinging to the rails.
Rita was standing, transfixed with horror at the coming calamity which nothing on earth could avert.
Old man Andrews closed his telescope with a snap.
"Guess you'd better go inside, Rita," he spoke tenderly.
"No, no!" she cried furiously, her lips white and her eyes dilated. "You can't fool me. That's Joe's tug. Give me that glass. Let me see."
"Better not, Rita. 'Tain't for gals."
"Give it to me," she cried savagely. "Give it to me."
She snatched the instrument from him and fixed it on the vessel. Then, with that awful pent-up emotion, which neither speaks nor weeps, she handed back the telescope to the fisherman.