At Falmouth, where she
had run in for a couple of days, on account of a damaged rudder, the
captain paid off his extra hands, foreseeing no difficulty in the voyage
up Channel. She had not, however, left Falmouth harbour three hours
before she met with a gale that started her steering-gear afresh.
To put back in the teeth of such weather was hopeless; and the attempt
to run before it ended as we know.
When Ruby looked up, after the crash, and saw her friends running along
the headland to catch a glimpse of the wreck, her anger returned.
She stood for twenty minutes at least, watching them; then, pulling her
cloak closely round her, walked homewards at a snail's pace. By the
church gate she met the belated Methodists hurrying up, and passed a
word or two of information that sent them panting on. A little beyond,
at the point where the peninsula joins the mainland, she faced round to
the wind again for a last glance. Three men were following her slowly
down the ridge with a burden between them. It was the first of the
rescued crew--a lifeless figure wrapped in oil-skins, with one arm
hanging limply down, as if broken. Ruby halted, and gave time to come
up.
"Hey, lads," shouted Old Zeb, who walked first, with a hand round each
of the figure's sea-boots; "now that's what I'd call a proper womanly
masterpiece, to run home to Sheba an' change her stockings in time for
the randivoose.
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