Tom had not worked long, however, before the Coast-guard Lieutenant bustled in.  He had trotted home to shave and get his breakfast, and was trotting back again to the shore.

“Hillo, Heale! can I see the fellow who was saved last night?”

“I am that fellow,” says Tom.

“The dickens you are! you seem to have fallen on your legs quickly enough.”

“It’s a trick I’ve had occasion to learn, sir,” says Tom.  “Can I prescribe for you this morning?”

“Medicine?” roars the Lieutenant, laughing.  “Catch me at it!  No; I want you to come down to the shore, and help to identify goods and things.  The wind has chopped up north, and is blowing dead on; and, with this tide, we shall have a good deal on shore.  So, if you’re strong enough—­”

“I’m always strong enough to do my duty,” said Tom.

“Hum!  Very good sentiment, young man.  Always strong enough for duty.—­Hum! worthy of Nelson; said pretty much the same, didn’t he? something about duty I know it was, and always thought it uncommon fine.—­Now, then, what can you tell me about this business?”

It was a sad story; but no sadder than hundreds beside.  They had been struck by the gale to the westward two days before, with the wind south; had lost their foretopmast and boltsprit, and become all but unmanageable; had tried during a lull to rig a jury-mast, but were prevented by the gale, which burst on them with fresh fury from the south-west, with very heavy rain and fog; had passed a light in the night, which they took for Scilly, but which must have been the Longships; had still fancied that they were safe, running up Channel with a wide berth, when, about sunset, the gale had chopped again to north-west;—­and Tom knew no more.  “I was standing on the poop with the captain about ten o’clock.  The last words he said to me were,—­’If this lasts, we shall see Brest harbour to-morrow,’ when she struck, and stopped dead.  I was chucked clean off the poop, and nearly overboard; but brought up in the mizen rigging.  Where the captain went, poor fellow, Heaven alone knows; for I never saw him after.  The mainmast went like a carrot.  The mizen stood.  I ran round to the cabin-doors.  There were four men steering; the wheel had broke out of the poor fellows’ hands, and knocked them over,—­broken their limbs, I believe.  I was stooping to pick them up, when a sea came into the waist, and then aft, washing me in through the saloon-doors, among the poor half-dressed women and children.  Queer sight, Lieutenant!  I’ve seen a good many, but never worse than that.  I bolted to my cabin, tied my notes and gold round me, and out again.”

“Didn’t desert the poor things?”

“Couldn’t if I’d tried; they clung to me like a swarm of bees.  ’Gad, sir, that was hard lines! to have all the pretty women one had waltzed with every evening through the Trades, and the little children one had been making playthings for, holding round one’s knees, and screaming to the doctor to save them.  And how the ——­ was I to save them, sir?” cried Tom, with a sudden burst of feeling, which, as in so many Englishmen, exploded in anger to avoid melting in tears.