The third figure Tunis could not identify—­not at once.  The man at the bow oar was Marvin Pike, who pulled a splendid stroke.  So did that unknown oarsman.  They were all bravely tugging at the heavy oars.  Tunis had faith in them.

Zebedee suddenly plunged across the pitching deck and reached the rail where Tunis stood.  Discipline—­at least seagoing etiquette—­had been somewhat in abeyance aboard the Seamew during the last few hours.  Zeb caught the skipper by the arm.

“See her?” he bawled into the ear of the surprised Tunis.

“What’s that?”

“See her hair?  It’s a girl!  As I’m a living sinner, it’s a girl!  Pulling number three oar, Captain Latham!  Did you ever?”

Clinging to a stay, the captain of the Seamew flung himself far over the rail as the schooner chanced to roll.  He could look down into the approaching lifeboat.  He saw the loosened, dark locks of the girl who was pulling at number three oar.  On the very heels of Zeb’s words the captain was confident of the girl’s identity.

“Sheila!”

His voice could not have reached her ear because of the rush and roar of the wind and sea, but, as though in answer to his shout, the girl glanced back and up, over her shoulder.  For a moment Tunis got a flash of the face he so dearly loved.

What a woman she was!  She lacked no more in courage than she did in beauty and sweetness of disposition.  What other girl along all this coast—­even one born of the Cape strain—­would have dared take an oar in that lifeboat in face of such dire peril as this?

“Good Lord, Cap’n Latham!” shrieked Zeb.  “That’s Miss Bostwick!”

Tunis straightened up, squared his shoulders, and looked at Zebedee proudly.  He wanted Zeb to know—­he wanted the whole world to know, if he could spread the news abroad—­that the girl pulling number three oar was the girl he loved, and was going to marry!

* * * * *

An hour later the Seamew, her topsails drawing full and her lower canvas properly handled, drove on like the bird she was through the channel into the cove, trailing the old lifeboat behind her.  The skipper had taken the wheel himself, but that “tug to sta’bbo’d” did not disturb his equanimity as it sometimes did Horry’s.

Sheila, muffled in oilskins and sea boots, but with her wet hair flowing over her shoulders, stood beside the skipper.  No matter how satisfied and confident Tunis might appear, the girl was still in an uncertain state of mind.

“And so,” she said to him anxiously, “I do not know what to tell them.  Cap’n Ira seemed so poorly and so unhappy.  And he says Aunt Prue is almost ill.

“But it was Cap’n Ira who told me what to do when we saw the Seamew in danger; how to get the men together and how to launch the boat!  Oh, it was wonderful!  He was not too overcome to be practical and realize your need, Tunis.”