"No, Miss, I hain't no doctor—that is, I hain't no medical M.D., but folks says I'm a right smart o' a water doctor fer fever an' sich, but in yo'r case, I's a-takin' o' the water out instead o' puttin' it in or rubbin' it on, an' you lacks a heap o' havin' a fever, but arter I gits ye ter the shack I'll warm up yer little cold frame an' vitals with a swig o' brandy. That is, if ye has come to 'nough ter swaller."
The young woman was now breathing normally. The Captain raised her in his arms and bore her to the shack—across the threshold of which hitherto no woman's foot had stepped. The room was warm with the heat from the cook-stove, which had been left with the drafts open. He laid the girl on his bed, and then brought to her a glass of old brandy, salvaged years before from a wreck, and held intact by him during all this time as if for just such an emergency.
It was with difficulty that he aroused the victim of the wreck sufficiently to swallow the liquor, but in the end he was successful. Then he removed her outer garments, and wrapped her in woolen blankets.
Yet, even after it was plain that the heart was working normally once again, since there was a delicate flush showing in the girl's cheeks, the Captain was puzzled by the mental vagueness. She did not show any revival of intelligence, although she seemed to recover all her physical powers. He came to believe that she must have been injured on the head, by a blow from some bit of wreckage. But, though he went over her skull with deft fingers, he could find no trace of a bruise. He finally decided that her mental condition must be merely the result of the strain undergone by her, and that it would be remedied by an interval of sleep. So, he tucked the blankets snugly about her, and then left her alone, that he might see what could be done toward bringing the marooned skipper from his perilous place on the wrecked boat.
While Captain Ichabod was busy with the rescue of the girl, there had come a lull in the storm. The wind had hauled around to the southwest, and was now blowing a stiff breeze off shore, which, taken together with the fast-running tide still on the ebb, had caused the seas to lessen in the Inlet. Under these improved conditions, the Captain decided to make a try at relieving the castaway from his sorry plight.
He launched the red skiff, and set out to row toward the wreck. He was encouraged in the difficult task by the frantic gestures with which the victim of the storm called for succor. Captain Ichabod reflected grimly that this fellow who had disregarded his warnings must be plainly a maniac. Yet he was sufficiently sane to have a normal desire to be saved from death. He guessed that perhaps the yachtsman had been temporarily unbalanced in his mind when in the grip of the raging waters—then, afterward, had regained his self-control, and with it a wholesome desire to live.
Captain Ichabod managed to bring the skiff up under the lee of the wreck. He threw a rope to the man, and bade him make it fast. The order was obeyed. Ichabod then directed the yachtsman to collect his valuables and come aboard the skiff. The castaway lost no time in obeying. Presently, carrying a small black bag, he seated himself in the skiff, and Ichabod turned the boat's nose toward the shore, and bent to the oars, in haste to get back to his patient, and so to complete his list of rescues for that eventful day.
During the short interval of time consumed in going from the wreck to the Island, the stranger made anxious inquiries as to the fate of the girl. He had thought that she was dead. When he heard from Captain Ichabod that the girl still lived he was obviously startled and surprised, but, too, he showed every symptom of intense pleasure. He displayed anxiety as to what the girl might have said. Then, when he learned that she had said nothing at all, he appeared greatly relieved. He seemed pleased to learn that she was still unconscious.
Ichabod, wonderingly, thought that he heard the stranger say:
"Thank God!"