line on it! She'll be on top of us in a minute and
the mast out of her! QUICK!"

Jimmy sprang for a coil of rope; Billy and the
others threw themselves after him; while half a dozen
men working around the small eddy in the lee of the
diminutive island caught up the oars and made a
dash for the yawl.

All this time the sloop, under the uplift of the first
big Montauk roller,--the skirmish line of the attack,
--surged, bow on, to destruction. Baxter, although
shaking with fear, had sense enough left to keep her
nose pointed to the stone pile. The mast might come
out of her, but that was better than being gashed
amidships and sunk in thirty feet of water.

Captain Joe, his rubber suit wet and glistening
as a shiny porpoise, his hair matted to his head, had
now reached the outermost rock opposite the doomed
craft, and stood near enough to catch every expression
that crossed Baxter's face, who, white as chalk, was
holding the tiller with all his strength, cap off, his
blousy hair flying in the increasing gale, his mouth
tight shut. Go ashore she must. It would be every
man for himself then. No help would come,--no
help COULD come. Captain Joe and his men would
run for shelter as soon as the blow fell, and leave
them to their fate. Men like Baxter are built to think
this way.