“Yes—­I think so.”

“I’d give you my place, but you’re too big to be taken in without danger.”

“Go ahead,” chattered the man in the water.  “Look after the girl before it’s—­too late.”

The captain’s stout hand was in his collar now and he heard him crying: 

“Pull, you muscle-bound heathens!  Everybody sit still!  Now away with her, men.  Keep up your heart, Murray, my boy; remember it takes more than water to kill a good Irishman.  It’s only a foot or two farther, and they’ve started a fire.  Serves you right, you big idiot, for going overboard, with all those boats.  Man dear, but you’re pulling the arm out of me; it’s stretched out like a garden hose!  Hey!  Cover up that girl, and you, lady, rub her feet and hands.  Good!  Move over please—­so the men can bail.”

The next O’Neil knew he was feeling very miserable and very cold, notwithstanding the fact that he was wrapped in dry clothing and lay so close to a roaring spruce fire that its heat blistered him.

Brennan was bending over him with eyes wet.  He was swearing, too, in a weak, faltering way, calling upon all the saints to witness that the prostrate man was the embodiment of every virtue, and that his death would be a national calamity.  Others were gathered about, men and women, and among them O’Neil saw the doctor from Sitka whom he had met on shipboard.

As soon as he was able to speak he inquired for the safety of the girl he had helped to rescue.  Johnny promptly reassured him.

“Man, dear, she’s doing fine.  A jigger of brandy brought her to, gasping like a blessed mermaid.”

“Was anybody lost?”

“Praise God, not a soul!  But it’s lucky I stood by to watch the old tub go down, or we’d be mourning two.  You’ll be well by morning, for there’s a cannery in the next inlet and I’ve sent a boat’s crew for help.  And now, my boy, lay yourself down again and take a sleep, won’t you?  It’ll be doing you a lot of good.”

But O’Neil shook his head and struggled to a sitting posture.

“Thanks, Johnny,” said he, “but I couldn’t.  I can hear those horses screaming, and besides—­I must make new plans.”

III

THE IRISH PRINCE

As dawn broke the cannery tender from the station near by nosed her way up to the gravelly shore where the castaways were gathered and blew a cheering toot-toot on her whistle.  She was a flat-bottomed, “wet-sterned” craft, and the passengers of the Nebraska trooped to her deck over a gang-plank.  As Captain Brennan had predicted, not one of them had wet a foot, with the exception of the two who had been left aboard through their own carelessness.

By daylight Halibut Bay appeared an idyllic spot, quite innocent of the terrors with which the night had endowed it.  A pebbled half-moon of beach was set in among rugged bluffs; the verdant forest crowded down to it from behind.  Tiny crystal wavelets lapped along the shingle, swaying the brilliant sea mosses which clung to the larger rocks.  Altogether the scene gave a strong impression of peace and security, yet just in the offing was one jarring contrast—­the masts and funnel of the Nebraska slanting up out of the blue serenity, where she lay upon the sloping bottom in the edge of deep water.