her arms bared to the elbow, her petticoats above the
tops of her shoes, met him inside the door. She had
been crying and her eyelids were still wet and her
cheeks swollen. The light of the ship's lantern fastened
to the wall fell upon a crib in the corner, on
which lay the child, his short curls, tangled with
much tossing, smoothed back from his face. The
doctor's ears had caught the sound of the child's
breathing before he entered the room.

"When did this come on?" Doctor John asked,
settling down beside the crib upon a stool that the
wife had brushed off with her apron.

"'Bout sundown, sir," she answered, her tear-
soaked eyes fixed on little Tod's face. Her teeth
chattered as she spoke and her arms were tight
pressed against her sides, her fingers opening and
shutting in her agony. Now and then in her nervousness
she would wipe her forehead with the back of
her wrist as if it were wet, or press her two fingers
deep into her swollen cheek.

Fogarty had followed close behind the doctor and
now stood looking down at the crib with fixed eyes,
his thin lips close shut, his square jaw sunk in the
collar of his shirt. There were no dangers that the
sea could unfold which this silent surfman had not
met and conquered, and would again. Every fisherman
on the coast knew Fogarty's pluck and skill,