"We'd better make ready to haul 'em out," said another. "It's
mighty dangerous." And sure enough, as the skiff came rushing in
through the breakers she was caught.

She had made it past the first line, soaring over the bar on a
foamy roller-crest like a storm-driven gull winging in towards the
land. The wiry figure of Bill Wheaton crouched in the stern while
two sailors fought with their oars. As they gathered for their
rush through the last zone of froth, a great comber rose out of
the sea behind them, rearing high above their heads. The crowd at
the surf's edge shouted. The boat wavered, sucked back into the
ocean's angry maw, and with a crash the deluge engulfed them.
There remained nothing but a swirling flood through which the
life-boat emerged bottom up, amid a tangle of oars, gratings, and
gear.

Men rushed into the water, and the next roller pounded them back
upon the marble-hard sand. There came the sound of splitting wood,
and then a group swarmed in waist-deep and bore out a dripping
figure. It was a hempen-headed seaman, who shook the water from
his mane and grinned when his breath had come.

A step farther down the beach the by-standers seized a limp form
which the tide rolled to them. It was the second sailor, his scalp
split from a blow of the gunwale. Nowhere was Wheaton.

Glenister had plunged to the rescue first, a heaving-line about
his middle, and although buffeted about he had reached the wreck,
only to miss sight of the lawyer utterly. He had time for but a
glance when he was drawn outward by the undertow till the line at