He quickly recovered, however.
"I may still," he concluded, moving towards the door, "be forced to
present myself here in another capacity."
CHAPTER XXII
The confinement of the house, after the departure of her unwelcome
visitor, stifled Philippa. Attired in a mackintosh, with a scarf
around her head, she made her way on to the quay, and, clinging to
the railing, dragged herself along to where the fishermen were
gathered together in a little group. The storm as yet showed no
signs of abatement.
"Has anything been heard of Ben Oates' boat?" she enquired.
An old fisherman pointed seawards.
"There she comes, ma'am, up on the crest of that wave; look!"
"Will she get in?" Philippa asked eagerly.
There were varied opinions, expressed in indistinct mutterings.
"She's weathering it grand," the fisherman to whom she had first
spoken, declared. "We've a line ready yonder, and we're reckoning
on getting 'em ashore all right. Lucky for Ben that the gentleman
along with him is a fine sailor. Look at that, mum!" he added in
excitement. "See the way he brought her head round to it, just in
time. Boys, they'll come in on the next one!"
One by one the sailors made their way to the very edge of the
wave-splashed beach. There were a few more minutes of breathless
anxiety. Then, after the boat had disappeared completely from sight,
hidden by a huge grey wall of sea, she seemed suddenly to climb to
the top of it, to hover there, to become mixed up with the spray and
the surf and a great green mass of waters, and then finally, with a
harsh crash of timbers and a shout from the fishermen, to be flung
high and dry upon the stones.
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