And then through the thunderous boom of the rising sea on the rock,
came the breaking voice of my boy (he had broken his right arm) mingled
with the sobs which his unconquered and unconquerable little soul was
struggling to suppress--

"We never minds a bit of hurt . . . we never minds _nothing_ when we're
out asploring!"

Meantime on shore there was a great commotion. My father was railing at
Aunt Bridget, who was upbraiding my mother, who was crying for Father
Dan, who was flying off for Doctor Conrad, who was putting his horse
into his gig and scouring the parish in search of the two lost children.

But Tommy the Mate, who remembered the conversation in the potting-shed
and thought he heard the tinkle of a bell at sea, hurried off to the
shore, where he found his boat bobbing on the beach, and thereby came to
his own conclusions.

By the light of a lantern he pulled out to St. Mary's Rock, and there,
guided by the howling of the dog, he came upon the great little
explorers, hardly more than three feet above high water, lying together
in the corn sack, locked in each other's arms and fast asleep.

There were no crowds and bands of music waiting for us when Tommy
brought us ashore, and after leaving Martin with his broken limb in his
mother's arms at the gate of Sunny Lodge, he took me over to the
Presbytery in order that Father Dan might carry me home and so stand
between me and my father's wrath and Aunt Bridget's birch.