"Wheer'm the bwoy, Michael? Oh, my good God, wheer'm Tom?"
Everybody strained silently to hear the answer, but though the fisherman
looked up, he made no reply. The boat steadied and one after another the
men in her went ashore, Tregenza mounting the steps last. His wife broke
the silence. Only a murmur of thankfulness had greeted the other men, for
their faces showed a tragedy. They regarded their leader fearfully, and
there was something more than death in their eyes.
"Wheer'm the bwoy--Tom? For the love of God, speak, caan't 'e? Why be you
all dumb an' glazin' that awful!" cried the woman, knowing the truth before
she heard it. Then she listened to the elder Pritchard, who whispered his
wife, and so fell into a great convulsion of raving, dry-eyed sorrow.
"Oh, my bwoy! Drownded--my awn lil precious Tom! God a mercy! Dead! Then
let me die tu!"
She gave vent to extravagant and savage grief after the manner of her kind.
She would have torn her hair and thrown herself off the quay but for kindly
hands which restrained.
"God rot you, an' blast you, an' burn you up!" she screamed, shaking her
fists at the sea. "I knawed this would be the end. I dreamed it 'fore 'e
was born. Doan't 'e hold me back, you poor fools. Let me gaw an' bury
myself in the same graave along wi' en. My Tom, my Tom! I awnly had but
wan--awnly wan, an' now--"
She wailed and wrung her hands, while rough voices filled her ears with
such comfort as words could bring to her.
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