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To Tommy Lark it was plain that Sandy Rowl could not lift himself out of the water.

“Hang fast'” he shouted. “I’ll help you!”

Timing his start, as best he was able, to land him on the pan in the middle of the lane when it lay in the trough, Tommy Lark set out to the rescue. It will be recalled that the pan would not support two men. Two men could not accurately adjust their weight. Both would strive for the center. They would grapple there; and, in the end, when the pan jumped on edge both would be thrown off.

Tommy Lark was aware of the capacity of the pan. Had that capacity been equal to the weight of two men, it would have been a simple matter for him to run out, grasp Sandy Rowl by the collar, and drag him from the water. In the circumstances, however, what help he could give Sandy Rowl must be applied in the moment through which he would remain on the ice before it sank; and enough of the brief interval must be saved wherein to escape either onward or back.

Rowl did not need much help. With one knee on the ice, lifting himself with all his might, a strong, quick pull would assist him over the edge. But Rowl was not ready. When Tommy Lark landed on the pan, Sandy was deep in the water, his hands gripping the ice, his face upturned, his shoulders submerged. Tommy did not even pause. He ran on to the other side of the lane. When he turned, Rowl had an elbow and foot on the pan and was waiting for help; but Tommy Lark hesitated, disheartened–the pan would support less weight than he had thought.

The second trial failed. Rowl was ready. It was not that. Tommy Lark landed awkwardly on the pan from the fifth cake of ice. He consumed the interval of his stay in regaining his feet. He did not dare remain. Before he could stretch a hand toward Rowl, the pan was submerged, and he must leap on in haste to the opposite shore of the lane; and the escape had been narrow–almost he had been caught.

Returning, then, to try for the third time, he caught Rowl by the collar, jerked him, felt him rise, dropped him, sure that he had contributed the needed impulse, and ran on. But when he turned, confident that he would find Rowl sprawling on the pan, Rowl had failed and dropped back in the water.

For the fourth time Tommy essayed the crossing, with Rowl waiting, as before, foot and elbow on the ice; and he was determined to leap more cautiously from the fifth cake of ice and to risk more on the pan that he might gain more–to land more circumspectly, opposing his weight to Rowl’s weight, and to pause until the pan was flooded deep. The plan served his turn. He landed fairly, bent deliberately, caught Rowl’s coat with both hands, dragged him on the pan, leaped away, springing out of six inches of water; and when, having crossed to the Scalawag shore of the lane, he turned, Rowl was still on the ice, flat on his back, resting. It was a rescue.

Presently Sandy Rowl joined Tommy Lark.

“All right?” Tommy inquired.

“I’m cold an’ I’m drippin’,” Sandy replied; “but otherwise I’m fair enough an’ glad t’ be breathin’ the breath o’ life. I won’t thank you, Tommy.”

“I don’t want no thanks.”

“I won’t thank you. No, Tommy. I’ll do better. I’ll leave Elizabeth t’ thank you. You’ve won a full measure o’ thanks, Tommy, from Elizabeth.”

“You thinks well o’ yourself,” Tommy declared. “I’m danged if you don’t!”

* * * * *

An hour later Tommy Lark and the dripping Sandy Rowl entered the kitchen of Elizabeth Luke’s home at Scalawag Harbor. Skipper James was off to prayer meeting. Elizabeth Luke’s mother sat knitting alone by the kitchen fire. To her, then, Tommy Lark presented the telegram, having first warned her, to ease the shock, that a message had arrived, contents unknown, from the region of Grace Harbor. Having commanded her self-possession, Elizabeth Luke’s mother received and read the telegram, Tommy Lark and Sandy Rowl standing by, eyes wide to catch the first indication of the contents in the expression of the slow old woman’s countenance.

There was no indication, however–not that Tommy Lark and Sandy Rowl could read. Elizabeth Luke’s mother stared at the telegram; that was all. She was neither downcast nor rejoiced. Her face was blank.

Having read the brief message once, she read it again; and having reflected, and having read it for the third time, and having reflected once more, without achieving any enlightenment whatsoever, she looked up, her wrinkled face screwed in an effort to solve the mystery. She pursed her lips, she tapped the floor with her toe, she tapped her nose with her forefinger, she pushed up her spectacles, she scratched her chin, even she scratched her head; and then she declared to Tommy Lark and Sandy Rowl that she could make nothing of it at all.

“Is the maid sick?” Tommy inquired.

“She is.”

“I knowed it!” Tommy declared.

“She says she’s homesick.” Elizabeth’s mother pulled down her spectacles and referred to the telegram. “‘Homesick,’ says she,” she added.

“What else?”

“I can’t fathom it. I knows what she means when she says she’s homesick; I’ve been that myself. But what’s this about Squid Cove? ‘Tis the queerest thing ever I knowed!”

Tommy Lark flushed.

“Woman,” he demanded, eager and tense, “what does the maid say about Squid Cove?”

“She says she’s homesick for the cottage in Squid Cove. An’ that’s every last word that she says.”

“There’s no cottage in Squid Cove,” said Sandy.

“No cottage there,” Elizabeth’s mother agreed, “t’ be homesick for. ‘Tis a very queer thing.”

“There’s no cottage in Squid Cove,” said Tommy Lark; “but there’s lumber for a cottage lyin’ there on the rocks.”

“What about that?”

“‘Tis my lumber!” Tommy roared. “An’ the maid knows it!”