datchin' ladder, an'--hi! stop!--fetch along my second-best glass, under
the Dook o' Cumberland's picter i' the parlour, 'longside o' last year's
neck; an'-hi! cuss the chap--he's gone like a Torpointer! Ruby, my
dear, step along an' show en--Why, hello!--"

Ruby, with head down, and scarlet cloak blown out horizontally, was
already fighting her way out along the headland to a point where Zeb
stood, a little apart from the rest, with both palms shielding his eyes.

"Zeb!"

She had to stand on tip-toe and bawl this into his ear. He faced round
with a start, nodded as if pleased, and bent his gaze on the Channel
again.

Ruby looked too. Just below, under veils of driving spray, the seas
were thundering past the headland into Ruan Cove. She could not see
them break, only their backs swelling and sinking, and the puffs of foam
that shot up like white smoke at her feet and drenched her gown.
Beyond, the sea, the sky, and the irregular coast with its fringe of
surf melted into one uniform grey, with just the summit of Bradden
Point, two miles away, standing out above the wrack. Of the vessel
there was, as yet, no sign.

In Ruby's present mood the bitter blast was chiefly blameworthy for
gnawing at her face, and the spray for spoiling her bonnet and taking
her hair out of curl. She stamped her foot and screamed again--

"Zeb!"