After the last summer visitor has gone, and the little craft that sail over the shallow bay have been hauled up high and dry, the pavilions deserted and the bathing-houses boarded up, the beaches take on a new aspect.  The sun shines with a cold gleam, and the surf has an angry snarl to it as it surges up the sandy slopes and then recedes, dragging the pebbles after it with a rattling sound.  The outer line of sand-bars, which in summer breaks the blue sea into sunny ripples and flashing whitecaps, then churns the water into fury and grips with a mighty hold the keel of any vessel that is unlucky enough to be driven on them.  When the keen winter winds whip through the beach grasses on the dunes and throw spiteful handfuls of cutting sand and spray; when the great waves pound the beach and the crested tops are blown off into vapour, then the life-saver patrolling the beach must be most vigilant.

All along the coast, from Maine to Florida, along the Gulf of Mexico, the Great Lakes, and the Pacific, these men patrol the beach as a policeman walks his beat.  When the winds blow hardest and sleet adds cutting force to the gale, then the surfmen, whose business it is to save life regardless of their own comfort or safety, are most alert.

All day the wind whistled through the grasses and moaned round the corners of the life-saving station; the gusts were cold, damp, and penetrating.  With the setting of the sun there was a lull, but when the patrols started out at eight o’clock, on their four-hours’ tour of duty, the wind had risen again and was blowing with renewed force.  Separating at the station, one surf man went east and the other west, following the line of the surf-beaten beach, each carrying on his back a recording clock in a leather case, and also several candle-like Coston lights and a wooden handle.

[Illustration:  A LIFE-SAVING CREW DRILLING WITH BEACH APPARATUS Hauling in a breeches-buoy and a passenger.]

“Wind’s blowing some,” said one of the men, raising his voice above the howl of the blast.

“Hope nothing hits the bar to-night,” the other answered.  Then both trudged off in opposite directions.

With pea-coats buttoned tightly and sou’westers tied down securely, the surfmen fought the gale on their watch-tour of duty.  At the end of his beat each man stopped to take a key attached to a post, and, inserting it in the clock, record the time of his visit at that spot, for by this means is an actual record kept of the movements of the patrol at all times.

With head bent low in deference to the force of the blast, and eyes narrowed to slits, the surfman searched the seething sea for the shadowy outlines of a vessel in trouble.