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CHAPTER X

How Billy Topsail's Friend Bobby Lot Joined Fortunes With Eli Zitt and Whether or Not he Proved Worthy of the Partnership

RUDDY COVE called Eli Zitt a "hard" man. In Newfoundland, that means "hardy" – not "bad." Eli was gruff-voiced, lowering-eyed, unkempt, big; he could swim with the dogs, outdare all the reckless spirits of the Cove with the punt in a gale, bare his broad breast to the winter winds, travel the ice wet or dry, shoulder a barrel of flour; he was a sturdy, fearless giant, was Eli Zitt, of Ruddy Cove. And for this the Cove very properly called him a "hard" man.

When Josiah Lot, his partner, put out to sea and never came back – an offshore gale had the guilt of that deed – Eli scowled more than ever and said a deal less.

"He'll be feelin' bad about Josiah," said the Cove.

Which may have been true. However, Eli took care of Josiah's widow and son. The son was Bobby Lot, with whom, subsequently, Billy Topsail shared the adventure of the giant squid of Chain Tickle. The Cove laughed with delight to observe Eli Zitt's attachment to the lad. The big fellow seemed to be quite unable to pass the child without patting him on the back; and sometimes, so exuberant was his affection, the pats were of such a character that Bobby lost his breath. Whereupon, Eli would chuckle the harder, mutter odd endearments, and stride off on his way.

"He'll be likin' that lad pretty well," said the Cove. "Nar a doubt, they'll be partners."

And it came to pass as the Cove surmised; but much sooner than the Cove expected. Josiah Lot's widow died when Bobby was eleven years old. When the little gathering at the graveyard in the shelter of Great Hill dispersed, Eli took the lad out in the punt – far out to the quiet fishing grounds, where they could be alone. It was a glowing evening – red and gold in the western sky. The sea was heaving gently, and the face of the waters was unruffled.

"Bobby, b'y!" Eli whispered. "Bobby, lad! Does you hear me? Don't cry no more!"

"Ay, Eli," sobbed Bobby. "I'll cry no more."

But he kept on crying, just the same, for he could not stop; and Eli looked away – very quickly – to the glowing sunset clouds. Can't you tell why?

"Bobby," he said, turning, at last, to the lad, "us'll be partners – you an' me."

Bobby sobbed harder than ever.

"Won't us, lad?"

Eli laid his great hand on Bobby's shoulder. Then Bobby took his fists out of his eyes and looked up into Eli's compassionate face.

"Ay, Eli," he said, "us'll be partners – jus' you an' me."

From that out, they were partners; and Bobby Lot was known in the Cove as the foster son of Eli Zitt. They lived together in Eli's cottage by the tickle cove, where Eli had lived alone, since, many years before, his mother had left him to face the world for himself. The salmon net, the herring seine, the punt, the flake, the stage – these they held in common; and they went to the grounds together, where they fished the long days through, good friends, good partners. The Cove said that they were very happy; and, as always, the Cove was right.

One night Eli came ashore from a trading schooner that had put in in the morning, smiling broadly as he entered the kitchen. He laid his hand on the table, palm down.

"They's a gift for you under that paw, lad," he said.

"For me, Eli!" cried Bobby.

"Ay, lad – for my partner!"

Bobby stared curiously at the big hand. He wondered what it covered. "What is it, Eli?" he asked. "Come, show me!"

Eli lifted the hand, and gazed at Bobby, grinning, the while, with delight. It was a jack-knife – a stout knife, three-bladed, horn-handled, big, serviceable; just the knife for a fisher lad. Bobby picked it up, but said never a word, for his delight overcame him.

"You're wonderful good t' me, Eli," he said, at last looking up with glistening eyes. "You're wonderful good t' me!"

Eli put his arm around the boy. "You're a good partner, lad," he said. "You're a wonderful good partner!"

Bobby was proud of that.

They put the salmon net out in the spring. The ice was still lingering offshore. The west wind carried it out; the east wind swept it in: variable winds kept pans and bergs drifting hither and thither, and no man could tell where next the ice would go. Now, the sea was clear, from the shore to the jagged, glistening white line, off near the horizon; next day – the day after – and the pack was grinding against the coast rocks. Men had to keep watch to save the nets from destruction.

The partners' net was moored off Break-heart Point. It was a good berth, but a rough one; when the wind was in the northeast, the waters off the point were choppy and covered with sheets of foam from the breakers.

"'Tis too rough t' haul the salmon net," said Eli, one day. "I'll be goin' over the hills for a sack o' flour. An' you'll be a good b'y 'til I gets back?"

"Oh, ay, sir!" said Bobby Lot.

It was a rough day: the wind was blowing from the north, a freshening, gusty breeze, cold and misty; off to sea, the sky was leaden, threatening, and overhead dark clouds were driving low and swift with the wind; the water was choppy – rippling black under the squalls. The ice was drifting alongshore, well out from the coast; there was a berg and the wreck of a berg of Arctic ice and many a pan from the bays and harbours of the coast.

With the wind continuing in the north, the ice would drift harmlessly past. But the wind changed. In the afternoon it freshened and veered to the east. At four o'clock it was half a gale, blowing inshore.

"I'll just be goin' out the tickle t' have a look at that ice," thought Bobby. "'Tis like it'll come ashore."

He looked the punt over very carefully before setting out. It was wise, he thought, to prepare to take her out into the gale, whether or not he must go. He saw to it that the thole-pins were tight and strong, that the bail-bucket was in its place, that the running gear was fit for heavy strain. The wind was then fluttering the harbour water and screaming on the hilltops; and he could hear the sea breaking on the tickle rocks. He rowed down the harbour to the mouth of the tickle, whence he commanded a view of the coast, north and south.

The ice was drifting towards Break-heart Point. It would destroy the salmon net within the hour, he perceived – sweep over it, tear it from its moorings, bruise it against the rocks. Bobby knew, in a moment, that his duty was to put out from the sheltered harbour to the wind-swept, breaking open, where the spume was flying and the heave and fret of the sea threatened destruction to the little punt. Were he true man and good partner he would save the net!

"He've been good t' me," he thought. "Ay, Eli 've been wonderful good t' me. I'll be true partner t' him!"

CHAPTER XI

Bobby Lot Learns to Swim and Eli Zitt Shows Amazing Courage and Self-possession and Strength

WHEN, returning over the hills, Eli Zitt came to the Knob o' Break-heart, he saw his own punt staggering through the gray waves towards the net off the point – tossing with the sea and reeling under the gusty wind – with his little partner in the stern. The boat was between the ice and the breakers. The space of open water was fast narrowing; only a few minutes more and the ice would strike the rocks. Eli dropped on his knees, then and there, and prayed God to save the lad.

"O Lard, save my lad!" he cried. "O Lard, save my wee lad!"

He saw the punt draw near the first mooring; saw Bobby loose the sheet, and let the brown sail flutter like a flag in the wind; saw him leap to the bow, and lean over, with a knife in his hand, while the boat tossed in the lop, shipping water every moment; saw him stagger amidships, bail like mad, snatch up the oars, pull to the second mooring and cut the last net-rope; saw him leap from seat to seat to the stem, grasp the tiller, haul taut the sheet, and stand off to the open sea.

"Clever Bobby!" he screamed, wildly excited. "Clever lad! My partner, my little partner!"

But the wind carried the cry away. Bobby did not hear – did not know, even, that his partner had been a spectator of his brave faithfulness. He was beating out, to make sea-room for the run with the wind to harbour; and the boat was dipping her gunwale in a way that kept every faculty alert to keep her afloat. Eli watched him until he rounded and stood in for the tickle. Then the man sighed happily and went home.

"Us'll grapple for that net the morrow," he said, when Bobby came in.

Bobby opened his eyes. "Aye?" he said. "'Tis safe on the bottom. I thought I'd best cut it adrift t' save it."

"I seed you," said Eli, "from the Knob. 'Twas well done, lad! You're a true partner."

"The knife come in handy," said Bobby, smiling. "'Tis a good knife."

"Aye," said Eli, with a shake of the head. "I bought un for a good one."

And that was all.

Eli set about rearing young Bobby in a fashion as wise as he knew. He exposed the lad to wet and weather, as judiciously as he could, to make him hardy; he took him to sea in high winds, to fix his courage and teach him to sail; he taught him the weather signs, the fish-lore of the coast, the "marks" for the fishing grounds, the whereabouts of shallows and reefs and currents; he took him to church and sent him to Sunday-school. And he taught him to swim.

On the fine days of that summer, when there were no fish to be caught, the man and the lad went together to the Wash-tub – a deep, little cove of the sea, clear, quiet, bottomed with smooth rock and sheltered from the wind by high cliffs; but cold – almost as cold as ice-water. Here Bobby delighted to watch Eli dive, leap from the cliff, float on his back, swim far out to sea; here he gazed with admiration on the man's rugged body – broad shoulders, bulging muscles, great arms and legs. And here, too, he learned to swim.

When the warmest summer days were gone, Bobby could paddle about the Wash-tub in promising fashion. He was confident when Eli was at hand – sure, then, that he could keep afloat. But he was not yet sure enough of his power when Eli had gone on the long swim to sea. Eli said that he had done well; and Bobby, himself, often said that he could swim a deal better than a stone. In an emergency, both agreed, Bobby's new accomplishment would be sure to serve him well.

"Sure, if the punt turned over," Bobby innocently boasted, "I'd be able t' swim 'til you righted her."

That was to be proved.

"Eli, b'y," said old James Blunt, one day in the fall of the year, "do you take my new dory t' the grounds t'-day. Sure, I'd like t' know how you likes it."

Old James had built his boat after a south-coast model. She was a dory, a flat-bottomed craft, as distinguished from a punt, which has a round bottom and keel. He was proud of her, but somewhat timid; and he wanted Eli's opinion of her quality.

"'Tis a queer lookin' thing!" said Eli. "But me an' my partner'll try she, James, just for luck."

That afternoon a fall gale caught the dory on the Farthest Grounds – far out beyond the Wolf's Teeth Reef. It came from the shore so suddenly that Eli could not escape it. So it was a beat to harbour, with the wind and sea rising fast. Off the Valley, which is half a mile from the narrows, a gust came out between the hills – came strong and swift. It heeled the dory over – still over – down – down until the water poured in over the gunwale. Eli let go the main-sheet, expecting the sail to fall away from the wind and thus ease the boat. But the line caught in the block. Down went the dory – still down. And of a sudden it capsized.

When Bobby came to the surface, he began frantically to splash the water, momentarily losing strength, breath and self-possession. Eli was waiting for him, with head and shoulders out of the water, like an eager dog as he waits for the stick his master is about to throw. He swam close; but hung off for a moment – until, indeed, he perceived that Bobby would never of himself regain his self-possession – for he did not want the boy to be too soon beholden to him for aid. Then he slipped his hand under Bobby's breast and buoyed him up.

"Partner!" he said, quietly. "Partner!"

Bobby's panic-stricken struggles at once ceased; for he had been used to giving instant obedience to Eli's commands. He looked in Eli's dripping face.

"Easy, partner," said Eli, still quietly. "Strike out, now."

Bobby smiled, and struck out, as directed. In a moment he was swimming at Eli's side.

"Take it easy, lad," Eli continued. "Just take it easy while I rights the boat. It's all right. I'll have you aboard in a jiffy. Is you – is you – all right, Bobby?"

"Aye," Bobby gasped.

Eli waited for a moment longer. He was loath to leave the boy to take care of himself. Until then he had not known how large a place in his heart his little partner filled, how much he had come to depend upon him for all those things which make life worth while. He had not known, indeed, how far away from the old, lonely life the lad had led him. So he waited for a moment longer, watching Bobby. Then he swam to the overturned dory, where, after an anxious glance towards the lad, he dived to cut away the gear – and dived again, and yet again; watching Bobby all the time he was at the surface for breath.

The gear cut away, the mast pulled from its socket, Eli righted the boat. It takes a strong man and clever swimmer to do that; but Eli was clever in the water, and strong anywhere. Moreover, it was a trick he had learned.

"Come, Bobby, b'y!" he called.

Bobby swam towards the boat. Eli swam to meet him, and helped him over the last few yards of choppy sea, for the lad was almost exhausted. Bobby laid a hand on the bow of the dory. Then Eli pulled off one of his long boots, and swam to the stern, where he began cautiously to bail the boat. When she was light enough in the water, he helped Bobby aboard, and Bobby bailed her dry.

"Ha, lad!" Eli ejaculated, with a grin that made his face shine. "You is safe aboard. How is you, b'y?"

"Tired, Eli," Bobby answered.

"You bide quiet where you is," said Eli. "I'll find the paddles; an' I'll soon have you home."

Eli's great concern had been to get the boy out of the water. He had cared for little else than that – to get him out of the reach of the sea. And now he was confronted by the problem of making harbour. The boat was slowly drifting out with the wind; the dusk was approaching; and every moment it was growing more difficult to swim in the choppy sea. It took him a long time to find the paddles.

"Steady the boat, Bobby," he said, when the boy had taken the paddles into the dory. "I'm comin' aboard."

Eli attempted to board the dory over the bow. She was tossing about in a choppy sea; and he was not used to her ways. Had she been a punt – his punt – he would have been aboard in a trice. But she was not his punt – not a punt, at all; she was a new boat, a dory, a flat-bottomed craft; he was not used to her ways. Bobby tried desperately to steady her while Eli lifted himself out of the water.

"Take care, Eli!" he screamed. "She'll be over!"

Eli got his knee on the gunwale – no more than that. A wave tipped the boat; she lurched; she capsized. And again Eli waited for Bobby to come to the surface of the water; again buoyed him up; again gave him courage; again helped him to the boat; again bailed the boat – this time with one of Bobby's boots – and again helped Bobby aboard.

"I'm wonderful tired, Eli," said Bobby, when the paddles were handed over the side for the second time. "I'm fair' done out."

"'Twill be over soon, lad. I'll have you home by the kitchen fire in half an hour. Come, now, partner! Steady the boat. I'll try again."

Even more cautiously Eli attempted to clamber aboard. Inch by inch he raised himself out of the water. When the greater waves ran under the boat, he paused; when she rode on an even keel, he came faster. Inch by inch, humouring the cranky boat all the time, he lifted his right leg. But he could not get aboard. Again, when his knee was on the gunwale, the dory capsized.

For the third time the little partner was helped aboard and given a boot with which to bail. His strength was then near gone. He threw water over the side until he could no longer lift his arms.

"Eli," he gasped, "I can do no more!"

Eli put his hand on the bow, as though about to attempt to clamber aboard again. But he withdrew it.

"Bobby, b'y," he said, "could you not manage t' pull a bit with the paddles. I'll swim alongside."

Bobby stared stupidly at him.

Again Eli put his hand on the bow. He was in terror of losing Bobby's life. Never before had he known such dread and fear. He did not dare risk overturning the boat again; for he knew that Bobby would not survive for the fourth time. What could he do? He could not get aboard, and Bobby could not row. How was he to get the boy ashore? His hand touched the painter – the long rope by which the boat was moored to the stage. That gave him an idea: he would tow the boat ashore!

So he took the rope in his teeth, and struck out for the tickle to the harbour!

"'Twas a close call, b'y," said Eli, when he and Bobby sat by the kitchen fire.

"Ay, Eli; 'twas a close call."

"A wonderful close call!" Eli repeated, grinning. "The closest I ever knowed."

"An' 'twas too bad," said Bobby, "t' lose the gear."

Eli laughed.

"What you laughin' at?" Bobby asked.

"I brought ashore something better than the gear."

"The dory?"

"No, b'y!" Eli roared. "My little partner!"

CHAPTER XII

Containing the Surprising Adventure of Eli Zitt's Little Partner on the Way Back from Fortune Harbour, in Which a Newfoundland Dog Displays a Saving Intelligence

BOBBY LOT, Eli Zitt's little partner, left his dog at home when he set out for Fortune Harbour in Eli's punt. He thought it better for the dog. He liked company, well enough, did Bobby; but he loved his dog. Why expose the lazy, fat, old fellow, with his shaky legs and broken teeth, to an attack in force by the pack of a strange harbour?

The old dog's fighting days were over. He had been a mighty, masterful beast in his prime; and he had scarred too many generations of the Ruddy Cove pack to be molested now as he waddled about the roads and coves where his strength and courage had been proved. But the dogs of Fortune Harbour knew nothing of the deeds he had done; and an air of dignity, a snarl and a show of yellow teeth would not be sufficient to discourage the yelping onset.

"They'd kill him," thought the master.

So the lad determined to leave his dog at home, and it was well for him that he did.

"Go back, Bruce!" he cried, as he pushed out from Eli Zitt's wharf-head.

But Bruce slipped into the water from the rocks, and swam after the boat, a beseeching look in the eyes which age had glazed and shot with blood. He was not used to being left at home when Bobby pushed out in the punt.

"Go home, b'y!" cried Bobby, lifting an oar.

The threatening gesture was too much for Bruce. He raised himself in the water and whined, then wheeled about and paddled for shore.

"Good dog!" Bobby called after him.

In response, the water in the wake of the dog was violently agitated. He was wagging his tail. Thus he signified a cheerful acquiescence.

"He'll be wonderin' why he've been sent back," thought Bobby. "'Tis too bad we can't tell dogs things like that."

Bobby had a message for Sammy Tompkins. It was about the great run of cod at Good Luck Tickles, the news of which had reached Ruddy Cove that morning. But old Sammy was on the Black Fly fishing grounds when the lad got to Fortune Harbour. It was growing dark when he got in for the night. So Bobby chanced to be late starting home.

The wind had fallen away to a breathless calm; the sky was thickly overcast, and a thin mist lay between the gloomy clouds and the sea's long, black ground-swell. Bobby had not pulled through four of the six miles before sea and sky and rocky coast were melted into one vast, deep shadow, except where, near at hand, the bolder headlands were to be distinguished by one who knew them well.

"I wonder," Bobby thought, "if I'll get home before mornin'. 'Tis hard t' say. I might have t' lie out here all night. Sure, I hope it gets no thicker."

He rowed on towards Ruddy Cove, taking new bearings from time to time as the deeper shadows of the headlands loomed out of the dark of the night. Thus, he followed the coast, making with great caution for the narrow entrance to the inner harbour, which invariably was hard to find at night or in the fog.

The sea was breaking against the rocks. The noise was loud in Bobby's ears, and served to guide him at such times as the headlands were indistinguishable from the clouds. His progress was slow and cautious; for he knew the dangers of the way he must take.

There was a line of submerged rocks – The Wrecker, Old Moll and Deep Down – lying out from Iron Head, directly in his path. That neighbourhood was a neighbourhood of danger. When the lad caught sight of the strange outline of Iron Head, he swerved the bow of the boat to sea and paddled out. He wanted to make sure of rounding Deep Down, the outermost rock – of giving it a wide berth.

But the night and the noise of the breakers confused him. He could not tell whether or not he had gone far enough. At length he decided that he must be safely beyond the rock. But where was Deep Down? Often he paused to turn and look ahead. Every glance he cast was more anxious than the one before. He was getting nervous.

"'Tis hard t' tell if the sea is breakin' on Deep Down," he said to himself. "Sure, it must be, though."

It was important to know that. Sometimes only the larger swells curl and break as they roll over Deep Down. Bobby knew that just such a sea was running then. Had it been daylight, the green colour and the slight lifting of the water would have warned him of the whereabouts of that dangerous reef. But it was night; the spray, as the wave was broken and flung into the air, and the swish and the patter, as the water fell back, were the signs he was on the lookout for.

If, then, the waves broke only at long intervals, the punt might at any moment be lifted and overturned. It might even then be floating over the rock. Bobby's heart beat faster when the greater swells slipped under the boat. Would they break beneath him? Would they break near at hand? He paddled slowly. It was better to be cautious, he thought, until he had Deep Down located. So he listened and looked as he paddled on.

At last he heard the significant swish and patter. He flashed about to look ahead. But he was too late. The spray had fallen and disappeared.

"'Tis somewheres near," he thought, "and 'tis breakin'. But whether t' port or starboard, I don't know."

Again – and apparently from another quarter – he heard the noise of a breaking wave. He turned in time to catch sight of a gleam of phosphorescence off the port bow.

"If that's Deep Down," he thought, "I'm safe. But if 'tis Old Moll or The Wrecker, I'm somewheres over Deep Down. I wisht I knowed which it was."

What was it? The Wrecker, Old Moll or Deep Down? Which one of the three rocks that lay in a line off Iron Head?

"I wisht I knowed," Bobby muttered, as he bent anew to the oars.

In the meantime, old Sol Sludge, of Becky Sharpe's cove, which lies beyond Iron Head, had started for Ruddy Cove by the goat paths to tell Skipper John Matthews that he would take a berth in the schooner Rescue when she got back from the Labrador.

He had a candle-lantern to light the way. When he had crossed the Head and was bound down the valley to meet the Ruddy Cove road, he heard a cry for help. It came from the sea, with a soft southwest wind which had sprung up – a sharp "Help! Help!" ringing out of the darkness again and again. Old Sol listened stupidly, until, as from exhaustion, the cries turned hoarse and weak.

"Now, I wonder who's out there," the dull old fellow thought. "It sounded like a woman's voice. Sure, it may be the spirit o' Mary Rutt. She was drowned off Iron Head."

Nevertheless, he made haste to Ruddy Cove – all the haste his old legs and dim sight would permit – and told the folk that he had heard the cry of a spirit drift in from the sea off Iron Head. But nobody believed that.

Who was in the water off Iron Head? was the question that passed from cottage to cottage. Was it Billy Topsail? No; for Billy told the folk in person that he had come in from the grounds at twilight. Was it Josiah Seaworthy? No; for Josiah's wife said that he had gone by way of Crooked Tickle to Burnt Harbour.

Who was it? Had Eli Zitt's little partner got back from Fortune Harbour? When Eli Zitt heard of that cry for help he knew that Bobby's punt had been overturned on one of the Iron Head rocks. Like a woman's voice? That surely was Bobby's – that clear, full voice. So he called for a crew to man the skiff, and in five minutes he was ready to push off.

Old Bruce jumped aboard.

"Get out with you!" said Bill Watt, aiming a kick at him by the light of the lantern.

"Sc-ctt!" cried old Tom Topsail.

But Bruce was a practiced stowaway. He slunk forward, and found a refuge under the bow seat.

"Push off, lads!" Eli shouted. "Give way!"

In ten minutes the skiff had passed from the harbour to the sea. Eli Zitt, who worked the scull oar, turned her bow towards the Iron Head rocks. It was dark; but he had fished those waters from boyhood, and he knew the way, daylight or dark.

Dark it was, indeed! How was Bobby to be found in that great shadow? He was a water-dog, was Bobby; but there was a limit to his endurance, and half an hour at least had passed since old Sol Sludge had heard his cry for help.

A long search meant failure. He must be found soon or he would not be found at all. On went the boat, the water curling from her bows and swirling in her wake. The phosphorescence flashed and glowed as the oars were struck deep and lifted.

"He'll be swimmin' in," Bill Watt panted, when the skiff had covered half the distance to Deep Down. "They's no place for him t' land with this sea on. We ought t' meet him hereabouts."

"If he's afloat," Topsail added.

"Oh, he's afloat yet," Eli said, confidently. "He's a strong swimmer, that lad is."

"I'm thinkin' he'll be nearer shore," said Bill Watt.

"No, no! He's further out an' on."

"Bobby!" Topsail shouted. "Oh, Bobby!"

There was no reply. For a moment the rowers lifted their oars from the water. Silence was all about – from the boat to the shore rocks, where the waves were breaking. The cries for help had ceased.

"Gone down," Bill Watt muttered.

The men gave way again. Again they paused to call Bobby's name, and to listen, with anxious hearts, for some far-off, answering cry. Again they gave way. Again they called and called, but heard no answer.

"Gone down," Bill Watt repeated.

"Give way, lads!" cried Eli. "He's further out."

Old Bruce came out from hiding. He crawled to the stern seat and sniffed to windward. Then, with his nose pointed astern, he began to howl.

"Shut up, you!" Topsail exclaimed.

But Bruce could not be quieted – not even after Topsail's boot had caught him in the side and brought a sharp howl of pain. Still he sniffed to windward and barked.

"Throw him over," said Bill Watt. "We'll not be able t' hear Bobby."

"Oh, if 'twas only light!" Eli groaned, not heeding Watt.

But it was dark. The water was covered with deepest shadow. Only the breakers and the black outline of Iron Head could be seen. Bobby might be swimming near at hand but too far off to send an audible shout for help.

"Bobby – oh – Bobby!"

If a cry in answer had gone up, the barking of the dog drowned it. The dog must be quieted.

"Push the brute over!" said Watt.

Watt himself dropped his oar and stepped to the stern. He took Bruce unaware and tumbled him into the water. The old dog made no protest. He whined eagerly and swam out from the boat – a straight course astern.

"Now, what did he do that for?" mused Watt.

"That's queer," said Topsail.

Eli looked deep into the night. The dog left a luminous wake. Beyond, in the direction the dog had taken, the man caught sight of a phosphorescent glow. Watt saw it at the same moment.

"What's that?" said he. "They's fiery water, back there!"

"Man," cried Eli, "the dog knowed! Sure, it must be Bobby, swimmin' up, an' too beat out t' cry. Fetch her about, lads. We're on the wrong course. Haste! He'll not be able t' last much longer."

Eli was right. The dog had known. It was Bobby. When they picked him up he was too much exhausted to speak. It was afterwards learned that he had mistaken the spray of the Old Moll breaker for Deep Down and had been turned over by the outer rock when he thought himself safe. He had heard the call of his name, and had seen the lantern of the rescuing skiff, as it drew near; but, long before, he had worn his voice out with screaming for help, and could make no answer. He had heard the barking of Bruce, too; had known its significance, and had wondered whether or not the dog would be understood. But all that he could say, when they lifted him aboard – and that in a hoarse, weak whisper – was:

"Bruce!"

At that moment the crew heard a piteous whine near at hand. It was Bill Watt who pulled the exhausted old dog over the gunwale.

"Good dog!" said he.

And so said they all.