he ordered. "Anchor rope'll do. Where is it? up
for'ard?"

He pawed the dory along, hand over hand, until he reached the Comfort's
bow. I heard the thump of the anchor as he dragged it into the dory.
Then came the creak and splash of oars. His voice sounded from somewhere
ahead.

"Head for the light," he shouted. "I'm goin' to tow you in."

"In where?"

"In ashore. That's Mack'rel Island light. My name's Atwood. I'm keeper
of it."

I turned to my passenger.

"It looks," I said, "as if our voyage was almost over."

And it was. Mr. Atwood had a tough job on his hands, towing the launch.
But the make-shift sail helped some and I did my best to steer in his
wake. Miss Colton and I had no opportunity to talk. The gentleman in
the dory kept up a running fire of remarks, shouted between grunts,
and embroidered with cheerful profanity. We caught fragments of the
monologue.

"I swan to man--ugh--I thought ye was thieves, for sartin. Some
everlastin', dam--ugh--have been sneakin' out nights and haulin' my
lobster pots. Ugh--if I'd caught 'em I was cal'latin' to--ugh--break
their--ugh--ugh--This dory pulls like a coal barge--I--Wet through,
ain't ye? And froze, I cal'late--Ugh--and hungry, too--Ugh--ugh--My old
woman's tendin' light. She--ugh--Here we be! Easy now!"

A low shore loomed black across our bows. Above it the lighthouse rose,
a white chalk mark against the sky with a red glare at its upper end.
Mr. Atwood sprang overboard with a splash. The launch was drawn in at
the end of its anchor rope until its keel grated on the sand.

"Now then!" said our rescuer. "Here we be! Made harbor at last, though I
did think I'd crack my back timbers afore we done it. I'll tote the lady
ashore. You can wade, can't ye?"

I could and I was very glad of the opportunity. I turned to take Miss
Colton in my arms, but she avoided me.

"Here I am, Mr. Atwood," she said. "Oh, thank you."

She was swung into the air and moved shoreward to the accompaniment of
mighty splashings.

"Don't be scart, ma'am," said Mr. Atwood. "I shan't let ye drop. Lord
sakes! I've toted more women in my time than you can shake a stick at.
There's more da--that is, there's more summer folks try to land on this
island at low tide than there is moskeeters and there's more of them
than there's fiddles in--Hi! come on, you, Mr. What's-your-name!
Straight as you go."

I came on wading through eelgrass and water until I reached a sandy
beach. A moment la