“There! there!” cried Dr. Franklin, with distended eyes and eager outlook.
“Where? where?” ejaculated Dr. Gale, striving to take into vision the whole surface of the river, at a glance.
“It’s all right! He’s coming up plump!” shouted Ezra, from his boat, as he rowed with speed for the spot where a brass tube was rising, sun-burnished, from the Connecticut.
Presently the brass head, with its very small windows, emerged, even the oaken sides were rising,—and Mr. Bushnell was greeting the returning consciousness of his wife with the words:
“It’s all right, mother. David is safe.”
“Don’t let him know,” were the first words she spoke, “that his own mother was so faithless as to doubt!”
And now, paddle, paddle, toward the river-bank came the Turtle, David Bushnell’s head rising out of its shell, proud confidence shining forth from his eyes, as feet and hands busied themselves in navigating the boat that had lived for months in his brain, and now was living, in very substance, under his control.
As he neared the bank a shout of acclamation greeted him.
He reached the island, was fairly dragged forth from his seat, and carried up to the spot where his mother sat, trying to overcome every trace of past doubt and fear.