"What cud we do, Joey?" said one. "Thar be Hannah an' the children; we kin give Hannah a lift. But as for Ben, it 's no use thinkin' about Ben no more."
The little clam-digger Snap was kindling a fire out of the old half-burnt wrecks of vessels.
"It's too late to give 'em warnin'," he said; "but it'll let 'em see we're watchin' 'em at the last. One ud like friends at the last."
The fire lighted up the shore, throwing long bars of hot, greenish flame up the fog.
"Who be them, Joe?" whispered a wrecker, as two dim figures came down through the marsh.
"She hev a sweetheart aboord. Don't watch her."
The men got up, and moved away, leaving Miss Defourchet alone with Doctor Dennis. She stood so quiet, her eyes glued on the dull, shaking shadow yonder on the bar, that he thought she did not care. Two figures came round from the inlet to where the water shoaled, pulling a narrow skiff.
"Hillo!" shouted Doctor Dennis. "Be you mad?"
The stouter of the figures hobbled up. It was Bowlegs. His voice was deadened in the cold of the fog, but he wiped the hot sweat from his face.
"In God's name, be thar none of ye ull bear a hand with me? Ud ye sit here an' see 'em drown? Benny's thar,—my Ben."