"Is there any one else?"
"There used to be some one. Twenty years ago I said I would come, and I'm coming now."
"I don't hear you."
Birkenshead laughed at his own thought, whatever it was. The devil who had tempted him might have found in the laugh an outcry more bitter than any agony of common men.
The planks beneath their feet sank inch by inch. They were shut off from the larboard side of the vessel. For a time they had heard oaths and cries from the other men, but now all was silent.
"There is no help coming from shore,"—(the old man's voice was weakening,)—"and this footing is giving way."
"Yes, it's going. Lash your arms to me by your braces, Doctor. I can help you for a few moments."
So saying, Birkenshead tore off his own coat and waistcoat; but as he turned, the coming breaker dashed over their heads, he heard a faint gasp, and when his eyes were clear of the salt, he saw the old man's gray hair in the midst of a sinking wave.
"I wish I could have saved him," he said,—then made his way as best he could by feet and hands to a bulk of timber standing out of the water, and sitting down there, clutched his hands about his knees, very much as he used to do when he was a clam-digger and watched the other boys bringing in their hauls.
"Twenty years ago I said I'd come, and I'm coming," he went on repeating.