crackling. The boat broached to. Sea-water was running the length of her
deck.

From out of the snow and night another sea came; and this one came
straight aboard, roaring as it came. Jan knew what it meant--there is
always the first sea by itself. Not long now before there would be
another.

And not long before there was another.

And soon there would be a hundred of them, one racing after the other.
And a thousand more of them--only this rust-eaten hull, with her
scrollwork topsides, would not hold together long enough to see a
thousand of them.

Jan tried to figure out how far they were from the Cape Cod shore. Ten,
fifteen, twenty miles. Call it twenty. Jan doubted if she would live to
get there, even with the gale behind her.

He walked round the house to look into the lighted saloon. She was
there--the poor girl--sitting patiently by herself. Long before this the
orchestra had given up playing and only a dozen passengers or so were
there; but she was the only lone one--in a red plush chair under a
cluster of wall-lights. Besides the passengers, there was one steward
and a colored maid, both staring together through the lighted window.

Jan's feet were wet. He went down to the bar, where he called for a
drink of ginger ale and a pint flask of brandy. "Of your best," he
added.