A strong head-wind met us in the Channel, and the backers of daylight
had almost given up hope; but it dropped in the late afternoon, and by
the log we were evidently in for a close finish. Mr. Olstein had set
his watch by the ship's chronometer, and consulted it from minute to
minute. He stood by me, binocular in hand, and grew paler with
excitement as sunset drew on and the minutes scored off the guesses one
by one from the list. His guess was among the last, but not actually
the last by half a dozen.

We had reached a point when five minutes disposed of no less than nine
guesses. The weather was dull: no one could tell precisely if the sun
had sunk or not. We were certainly within twenty miles of the rock, and
by the Nautical Almanack, unless our chronometer erred, the light ought
to flash out within sixty seconds. If within forty the man sang out
from the crow's-nest, Mr. Olstein would lose; after forty he had a whole
minute and a half for a clear win.

The forty seconds passed. Mr. Olstein drew a long breath of relief.
"But why the devil don't they light up?" he demanded after a moment.
"I call you to witness what the time is by our chronometer. I'll have
it tested as soon as I step ashore, and if it's wrong I'll complain to
the Company; if it's not, I'll send the Trinity House a letter'll lay
those lighthouse fellows by the heels! Punctuality, sir, in the case of
shipping--life or death--"

The cry of the man in the crow's-nest mingled with ours as a spark
touched the north-eastern horizon almost ahead of us--trembled and
died--shone out, as it seemed, more steadily--and again was quenched.