The storm was not over, by any means, when the
ship went down. Blinding bolts of lightning shot
from cloud to cloud and the clamor of deep
thunderclaps echoed far over the sea. The waves
tossed the little raft here and there as a child
tosses a rubber ball and Betsy had a solemn
feeling that for hundreds of watery miles in every
direction there was no living thing besides
herself and the small donkey.
Perhaps Hank had the same thought, for he gently
rubbed his nose against the frightened girl and
said "Hee-haw!" in his softest voice, as if to
comfort her.
"You'll protect me, Hank dear, won't you?" she
cried helplessly, and the mule said "Hee-haw!"
again, in tones that meant a promise.
On board the ship, during the days that preceded
the wreck, when the sea was calm, Betsy and Hank
had become good friends; so, while the girl might
have preferred a more powerful protector in this
dreadful emergency, she felt that the mule would
do all in a mule's power to guard her safety.
All night they floated, and when the storm had
worn itself out and passed away with a few distant
growls, and the waves had grown smaller and easier
to ride, Betsy stretched herself out on the wet
raft and fell asleep.
Hank did not sleep a wink. Perhaps he felt it
his duty to guard Betsy. Anyhow, he crouched
on the raft beside the tired sleeping girl and
watched patiently until the first light of dawn
swept over the sea.
The light wakened Betsy Bobbin. She sat up,
rubbed her eyes and stared across the water.
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