It was no good. John took the paddle and worked her laboriously across the tide. He had done his best, he felt. The rain had stopped.

When he came to the wooden steps the lights were on in Stephen’s dining-room, in Stephen’s drawing-room. And against the light he saw a head, motionless above the wall. The tide was a long way down now, faintly washing the bottom of the wall.

A hoarse whisper came over the water:

“John⁠—John⁠—any luck?”

“None, Stephen, I’m sorry.” John’s voice was curiously soft and compassionate.

There was silence. Then there came a kind of hysterical cackle, and Stephen’s voice, “John, it’s⁠—it’s a boy!”

John stood up in the boat and began, “Congratulations, old⁠ ⁠…”

There was another cackle, and the head was gone.