The Coxswains Bride | Page 6

wind, in Bob's
powerful, deep-toned voice.
Another moment, and he was lost to sight in the boiling waste of waters.
Slag knew well what he meant. If they should cast off the rope before
rescuing all, for the purpose of picking up the coxswain, there would be
no possibility of getting back again to the schooner, for she was fast
breaking up. Every current and eddy about these sands was well known
to Joe Slag, also the set of the tides--besides, had not Bob got on his
lifebelt? He felt, nevertheless, that it was a tremendous risk to let him
go. But what could poor Slag do? To cast off at once would have been
to sacrifice about a dozen lives for the sake of saving two. It was a
fearful trial. Joe loved Bob as a brother. His heart well nigh burst, but it
stood the trial. He did his duty, and held on to the wreck!
Duty, on that occasion, however, was done with a promptitude, and in a

fashion, that was not usual in one of his sedate nature. Fortunately,
none but men remained on the wreck by that time.
"Tumble 'em in--sharp!" cried Slag.
The lifeboat men obeyed literally, and tumbled them in with a celerity
that might almost have awakened surprise in a sack of potatoes!
To haul up the anchor would have been slow work. Slag--economical
by nature--became extravagant for once. An axe made short work of
cable and anchor.
"Let 'em go!" he growled, as the boat drifted away.
The sail was set with miraculous speed, for now the wind was in their
favour, and the gay lifeboat bounded off in the direction where Bob had
disappeared, as though it felt a lively interest in the recovery of its
coxswain. It seemed as if the very elements sympathised with their
anxiety, for just then the gale sensibly abated, and the rising sun broke
through a rift in the grey clouds.
"There he is--I see him!" shouted the man in the bow--pointing eagerly
ahead.
"It's on'y a bit o' wreck, boy," cried a comrade.
"Right you are," returned the bowman.
"There he is, though, an' no mistake, this time. Port!--port!
hard-a-port!"
As he spoke, the boat swept round into a sort of cross-current among
the waves, where an object resembling a man was observed spinning
slowly round like a lazy teetotum. They were soon alongside. A dozen
claw-like hands made a simultaneous grasp, and hauled the object on
board with a mighty cheer, for it was, indeed, the coxswain--alive,
though much exhausted--with his precious little curly-haired burden in
his arms.

The burden was also alive, and not much exhausted, for the weather
was comparatively warm at the time, and Bob had thrust her little head
into the luxuriant thicket of his beard and whiskers; and, spreading his
great hands and arms all over her little body, had also kept her well out
of the water--all which the great buoyancy of his lifebelt enabled him
easily to do.
Shall we describe the joy of the widow and the grandfather? No; there
are some sacred matters in life which are best left to the imagination.
The sunshine which had begun to scatter the clouds, and flood both
land and sea, was typical of the joy which could find no better means
than sobs wherewith to express gratitude to the God of mercy.
We have said that the gale had begun to abate. When the lifeboat
escaped from the turmoil of cross-seas that raged over the sands and
got into deep water, all difficulties and dangers were past, and she was
able to lay her course for Greyton harbour.
"Let's have another swig o' that cold tea," said Bob Massey, resuming
his rightful post at the helm. "It has done me a power o' good. I had no
notion that cold tea was so good for warmin' the cockles o' one's heart."
Ah! Bob Massey, it was not the cold tea, but the saving of that little girl
that sent the life's blood careering so warmly through your veins!
However, there's no harm done in putting it down to the credit of the
cold tea. Had the tea been hot, there might have been some truth in
your fancy.
"What's the time?" asked Bob, with a sudden look of anxiety.
"Just gone ten," said Slag, consulting a chronometer that bore some
resemblance to an antique warming-pan.
The look of anxiety on the coxswain's countenance deepened.
"Ease off the sheet a bit," he said, looking sternly over the weather
quarter, and whistling for a fresher breeze, though most men would
have thought the breeze fresh enough already.

As if to accommodate him, and confirm the crew in the whistling
superstition, the breeze did increase at the moment, and sent the
lifeboat,