“Lena! You are wrong!”
All too well Lieutenant Warren, who had spent many months on the New England coast, knew that they had been caught in one of those brief but terrific storms that from time to time ravage the coast.
A quarter hour passed, then again they were in the midst of the storm.
For a full hour after that, never flinching, nor asking for quarter, the stout Lena held to her post until with a deep breath that was half groan and half a sigh of relief she slid the small boat into the narrow slip by the dock. Here, behind the breakwater, they were safe.
Sergeant Tom, who had been anxiously awaiting word from them, caught the line. Lena leaped to the dock, then, drenched as she was by cold salt water spray, went racing for Harbor Bells.
At that moment words were running through Norma’s mind, the words of a child:
“The bad Gremlins do that.”
As she trudged up the hill toward the spot where dry clothes, a roaring, open fire, and steaming coffee awaited them, Norma said to her Lieutenant:
“Lena was magnificent!”
“Yes,” was the quiet reply. “We all have our big moments. Your big moment too will arrive, perhaps sooner than you think.”