The rector was in oilskins and sou'wester, like any one else, and the gleam of his spectacles under the snowy brim of his headgear seemed to strike no one as incongruous.

His pockets bulged with bottles and bandages.

Under his arm he carried a couple of blanket horse-cloths, useful for carrying the injured or the dead.
"The Curlo--the Inner Curlo--yes, yes!" he shouted in response to information volunteered on all sides.

"Poor fellows! The Inner Curlo, dear, dear!" And he groped his way down the steps, into the first boat he saw, with a simple haste.

John Turner followed him.