CHAPTER VI

AFLOAT

WHEN the wind blew the clouds away about midnight, and the moon came out, the cold white light falling upon a lonely high road revealed a wretched figure toiling on with weary, dragging steps, his garments heavy with rain.

This miserable tramp was Tad. He still carried his satchel, but that too was drenched, and when he stopped and groped in it for some food to stay the pangs of hunger, he pulled out only a squashy mess of pulp which had once called itself a penny roll, but which now bore no resemblance whatever—not even a family likeness—to that dainty.

With a sigh and a glance of disgust, Tad threw the sop into the ditch at the side of the road, and plodded on, splashing recklessly through the deep mud and puddles. The road, bounded on the right by cornfields, had run along the cliff keeping close to the coastline. But now the way cut straight across the shoulder of a promontory, and began to dip to a gorge on the further side, between mighty jagged walls where some long ago convulsion of nature had broken the cliff line of the shore.

This gully widened towards the beach, ending there, above high-water mark, in soft, deep, white sand which gleamed like silver in the moonlight.

To the heavy sleepful eyes of the traveller, the spot looked inviting enough. Sheltered from the wind, dry under foot, and as lonely and deserted as ever a fugitive and a vagabond could desire, this rocky, sand-carpeted nook seemed a very haven of refuge to poor Tad. Slowly and cautiously picking his way among the irregularities of the gorge, the forlorn lad clambered down, and presently found himself in the sandy corner which promised so welcome a refuge.

Here, by the white light of the moon, he crawled in and out among the rocks till he found a deep bed of dry sand with large boulders all round it, so that it was quite a sheltered nest, shutting out the keen autumn wind, and screening him too from observation, had there been anyone to see.

Here, then, nestling down among the rocks, and burrowing into the sand like a rabbit, poor Tad, lulled by the quiet, monotonous wash of the waves on the shingle lower down, fell sound asleep—so sound that he heard nothing, saw nothing. Till in broad daylight, he awoke suddenly with the feeling of something cold against his cheek. And starting up, he found a little rough cur gazing inquisitively into his face, with its comical head on one side. It was the little, chill, black nose of the animal rubbing against his cheek that had waked him.

Tad sprang to his feet alarmed. The sun was high in the heavens; the hour could not be far from noon. He had almost slept the clock round. Only half awake still, he stared about him with frightened eyes. Where there was a dog there might also be people—people who might have heard his story, and would perhaps recognise him for the hunted young scapegrace who was supposed to have done away with his little half-brother.

Hither and thither, with panic-stricken gaze, peered poor Tad, but no human form was in sight. He walked a few steps further to get a wider view of the shore. Rounding a corner of rock, he spied, in the cleft of a boulder, a gleam of colour. As he came nearer, he saw that the gleam of colour was the corner of a red bandanna kerchief tied round something, in the form of a bundle. But as the boy—cramped and stiff with lying for twelve hours in damp things—stooped painfully to examine the bundle, the dog leaped past him, and lay down by the rock with his forepaws on the knot of the kerchief. Made bold by hunger, and feeling sure the bundle contained food, Tad laid his hand upon it and tried to lift it, but as he did so, the dog growled and showed his teeth. Evidently the animal had been sent to guard the bundle, and the owner of both would be back presently.

By this time the boy was perfectly ravenous with hunger, and ready to do anything for a meal. He did not, however, wish to run the risk of being bitten, and so he at first tried to divert the dog's attention by throwing a stick towards the water for him to fetch. But the sharp little cur saw through his design, and would not budge an inch.

Then Tad took up an ocean cat-o'-nine-tails of tough, leathery seaweed, and tried to frighten the poor little beast away, but it only whined, and crouched still closer to the rock.

Made quite desperate by the little animal's faithful resistance, Tad at last dragged an old shirt out of his satchel, threw the clinging folds over the dog's head and body, tied the sleeves together round the little creature, and rolled it, struggling and snapping vainly, into a long, bolster-like bundle. This he laid down on the sand, with two large stones on the outer folds to keep the dog from extricating itself. Then he snatched up the red kerchief and unknotted it. Oh joy! What a delightful dinner met the glad eyes of the famished lad. Several thick slices of bread and butter, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, part of the heel of a Dutch cheese, and a solid-looking, brown-crusted, seed loaf, together with a tin flask of cold coffee.

Tad's first impulse was to sit right down, then and there, and gorge himself with the food. But fear for his safety mastered even the impulse of his hunger, and he remembered that the owner of the dog and the red bundle would certainly be returning soon.

Looking about him, uncertain what to do for the best, the lad espied a little boat, moored to a rock in shallow water, not very far from the place where he was standing. And the idea occurred to him that he might get to the boat by wading, row off to a little rocky islet about half a mile out to sea, and—

"Then," said he to himself, "I shall be safe, and I'll have time to think what to do next."

Another swift look round to see that no one was coming yet—then the boy ran down the beach, waded into the water, scrambled into a boat, and at once cast off the loop of string which held her to a jutting point of the rock.

The tide had turned, and away slipped the boat on a receding wave, into deeper water. For a few minutes Tad, in his great hunger, was so busy discussing the contents of the red bundle, that he was conscious of nothing else. But, as the first sharp pangs of famine were assuaged, he glanced about him, and seeing that the tide and current were carrying him away from the island, he threw down the remnants of his stolen meal, so as to take up the oars, which he had not thought of before.

What were the boy's feelings when he found that there were no oars in the boat at all; they must have been left on shore, together with the sail and the boat-hook.

With an exclamation of fear and horror, Tad turned his eyes despairingly towards the beach, hoping to see someone who would come in another boat to his rescue, for his little craft, borne swiftly on the ebb of the tide, was drifting steadily out to sea. But no—not a soul was in sight anywhere on land, and not a fishing-smack upon the water, far as the eye could reach.

Overwhelmed with despair at this new misfortune that had befallen him, and perceiving dimly that this, like the others, was clearly the outcome of his own wrong-doings, the poor lad in despair threw himself down in the bottom of his drifting boat, sobbing and crying till he fell asleep again from exhaustion; fell asleep rocked by the swaying and heaving of the waters; hushed into a deep and dreamless rest by their wash and whisper.