‘He crawls under our seat and lays down. He had got on a little thin overcoat over his other clothes, but nothing to be no good. I throws down a spare jersey, and Tom a oilskin. Then I tosses him a bottle o’ tea and brandy as my missis always gives me.
‘“You’ve done it this time!” I yells. “You must fend for yourself now. I can’t help you.”
‘We drops down the river, for the tide was ebbing strong. And then I realises what the weight o’ wind was. I’ve see’d some queer seas in my time, but never a wuss bit o’ watter than the Bar here was that night, smooth as oil though it be now. The great wind met the great tide, and raised a hurricane sea; the boat herself couldn’t ha’ faced it if the wind hadn’t just then hauled a couple o’ points, and let us get a bit o’ sail on her. Even then I didn’t know half the time whether I were right side or wrong side up. Cold, wet, and rough work it were. But at last we gets over and away and shapes a course for Lundy.
‘Before long the wind takes off a bit, and the sea begins to moderate. ’Twas a queer blow altogether. Not a drop o’ rain to it, and all the wind’ard side o’ the hedges were crisp and black as if fire had burned ’em. Then the sky cleared and the day broke. There were the barque ashore on the Hen and Chickens Rocks, north end o’ the island. Two boats was standing by her, the Braunton and ’Coombe boats; so we rows along to the landing-place, which were sheltered, and brings up. And then me and Tom bends down and fishes up Mr. Harris.
‘You recollect, sir, he ’ad been rolling about in the watter in the bottom of the boat the better part o’ the night. I never see such a melancholly sight! He ’ad no hat, one shoe were gone, his shirt and wes’cot were half tored off. And the queasiness—! But never mind that! His gold glasses were smashed, and he ’ad a great bleeding cut over one eye from the bottle o’ tea and brandy, which had broke. I judged him pretty near gone; he were cold as a stone, and half drowned.
‘We turns to, and gives him a rub, and shoves a warm jersey on him, and Cap’n Batten, without making no remark, shoves down a bottle to us, o’ brandy. That pulls him round a bit. He looks about him and points to the island. We nods, and he slips down again.
‘Just then a boat puts off, and when she gets alongside I see Mirandy was in her. She looks as pretty as a picture, with her red cap and red cheeks, and blue eyes all of a sparkle. One o’ our chaps clears his throat and coughs, and then another till all the boat were doing it. And even Cap’n Batten, though he were high up in the Wesleyans, and ’ad ninety-eight grandchildren, winks at her.
‘Then she says, looking up very demure, and trying not to laugh:
‘“If you please, Cap’n Batten, is my brother-in-law Tom Jenkyns in the boat? And if he is may he come ashore? Mother wants to see him.”
‘“He be aboard, my dear,” says Cap’n Batten, “but I can’t let no one leave the boat. We been out all night, and we’m for home now. But you can give ’un a message. He’m down there forrard.”