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Updated: September 10, 2025
Her teeth shone with a native luster, as if she had lived on roots and tough things all her life. Again little Rackby felt that glow of health and hardness in her person, as if one of the cynical and beautiful immortals of the Greeks confronted him. He was heartily afraid of her mystifying power of enchantment, which seemed to betray him to greater lengths than he had dreamed.
A fearful misgiving caused him to drop to his knees. The girl opened her eyes; a new brilliance danced there. With a shiver, the harbor master perceived those signs of a fire got beyond control which had consumed the mother. "She has cut her foot, friend Rackby," said Peter. "I took the liberty to bring her here so." Wrath seized the little man.
How could he know that here, on Pull-an'-be-Damned, within a biscuit's toss of the weirs, Cad Sills had served the same fare to Rackby. He turned and ran, holding her close, and the tide hissed at his heels like a serpent.
"To Peter Loud," said the jeweler. Jethro Rackby pressed the glass case hard with his finger ends. What should Deep-water Peter be doing with a string of pearls? He must go at once. Yet he must not return empty-handed. He bought a small pendant, saw it folded into its case, and dropped the case into his pocket. When he came to the harbor's edge he found a fleecy fog had stolen in.
The girl would throw all the rest of us in a heap tomorrow for a firm hold of you, Rackby." He winked at Zinie Shadd, who swayed on his heels soberly. Rackby turned his eyes toward the black mound of Meteor, which lay like a shaggy stone Cerberus at the harbor's mouth. The star-pointed harbor was quiet at his feet.
Peter loosened his hold with a cry almost of terror at the light in those eyes. He thought he had seen Cad Sills staring at him. There was no time to verify such notions. Day Rackby had seen Jethro on his knees, imploring her, voicelessly, with his mysterious right reason, which said, plainer than words, that the touch of Peter's lips was poison to her soul.
A white light played on the threshold of the sea, and the dark bank of seaward-rolling fog presently revealed that trembling silver line in all its length, broken only where the sullen dome of Meteor rose into it. High above, two wondrous knotty silver clouds floated, whose image perfectly appeared in the water. "Glory be!" said Jethro Rackby, aloud. He hastened his stroke.
Day sat sleepily in the stern of the dory, her shoulders pinched back, her heavy braid overside and just failing the water, her eyes on the sway of cockles in the bottom of the boat. Rackby puckered his face, when the square bell tower of the church, white as chalk, came into view, dazzling against the somber green upland.
Rackby, who had fallen into a deep sleep, lying northeast and southwest, was awakened by a hand smiting his door in, and a wailing outside of the Old Roke busy with his agonies. In a second his room was full of crowding seamen, at their head Peter Loud, bearing in his arms the dripping form of Caddie Sills. He laid her gently on the couch. "Where did you break up?" whispered Rackby.
A little cove lay at the base of this crevasse, and here a bed of whitest sand had sifted in, rimmed by a great heap of well-sanded, bright-blue shells of every size and shape. This was the storehouse from which Day Rackby drew her speaking shells. He looped the painter of his dory under a stone and ascended the rock. His heart was in his throat.
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