From half-past eleven in the morning until half-past five at night,
they were in immediate and unceasing danger. Upon the least
mishap, the PURGLE must either have been swamped by the seas or
bulged upon the cliffs of that rude headland. Fleeming and
Robertson took turns baling and steering; Mrs. Jenkin, so violent
was the commotion of the boat, held on with both hands; Frewen, by
Robertson's direction, ran the engine, slacking and pressing her to
meet the seas; and Bernard, only twelve years old, deadly sea-sick,
and continually thrown against the boiler, so that he was found
next day to be covered with burns, yet kept an even fire. It was a
very thankful party that sat down that evening to meat in the Hotel
at Gairloch. And perhaps, although the thing was new in the
family, no one was much surprised when Fleeming said grace over
that meal. Thenceforward he continued to observe the form, so that
there was kept alive in his house a grateful memory of peril and
deliverance. But there was nothing of the muff in Fleeming; he
thought it a good thing to escape death, but a becoming and a
healthful thing to run the risk of it; and what is rarer, that
which he thought for himself, he thought for his family also.
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