Some of
these were smashed into splinters by end-on collisions
with cord-wood; others had dodged the floatage and
were landed high on the beach.
During the enforced idleness Tod occupied himself
in rolling away from the back-suck of the surf
the drift that came ashore. Being nearest a stranded
crate he dragged it clear and stood bending over it,
reading the inscription. With a start he beckoned
to Parks, the nearest man to him, tore the card from
the wooden slat, and held it before the surfman's
face.
"What's this? Read! That's the Polly Walters
out there, I tell ye, and the captain's son's aboard!
I've been suspicionin' it all the mornin'. That's him
with the slouch hat. I knowed he warn't no sailor
from the way he acted. Don't say nothin' till we're
sure."
Parks lunged forward, dodged a stick of cord-wood
that drove straight at him like a battering-ram and,
watching his chance, dragged a floating keg from the
smother, rolled it clear of the surf, canted it on end,
and took a similar card from its head. Then he
shouted with all his might:
"It's the Polly, men! It's the Polly--the Polly
Walters! O God, ain't that too bad! Captain Ambrose's
drowned, or we'd a-seen him! That feller
in the slouch hat is Bart Holt! Gimme that line!"
He was stripping off his waterproofs now ready for
a plunge into the sea.
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