Perchance as he looked his eye caught the dark bulk of a ship in a sea of foam, or the faint lines of spars and rigging through the spume and frozen haze—­the unmistakable signs of a vessel in distress.  An instant’s concentrated gaze to make sure, then, taking a Coston signal from his pocket and fitting it to the handle, he struck the end on the sole of his boot.  Like a parlour match it caught fire and flared out a brilliant red light.  This served to warn the crew of the vessel of their danger, or notified them that their distress was observed and that help was soon forthcoming; it also served, if the surfman was near enough to the station, to notify the lookout there of the ship in distress.  If the distance was too great or the weather too thick, the patrol raced back with all possible speed to the station and reported what he had seen.  The patrol, through his long vigils under all kinds of weather conditions, learns every foot of his beat thoroughly, and is able to tell exactly how and where a stranded vessel lies, and whether she is likely to be forced over on to the beach or whether she will stick on the outer bar far beyond the reach of a line shot from shore.

In a few words spoken quickly and exactly to the point—­for upon the accuracy of his report much depends—­he tells the situation.  For different conditions different apparatus is needed.  The vessel reported one stormy winter’s night struck on the shoal that runs parallel to the outer Long Island beach, far beyond the reach of a line from shore.  Deep water lies on both sides of the bar, and after the shoal is passed the broken water settles down a little and gathers speed for its rush for the beach.  These conditions were favourable for surf-boat work, and as the surfman told his tale the keeper or captain of the crew decided what to do.

The crew ran the ever-ready surf-boat through the double doors of its house down the inclined plane to the beach.  Resting in a carriage provided with a pair of broad-tired wheels, the light craft was hauled by its sturdy crew through the clinging sand and into the very teeth of the storm to the point nearest the wreck.

The surf rolled in with a roar that shook the ground; fringed with foam that showed even through that dense midnight darkness, the waves were hungry for their prey.  Each breaker curved high above the heads of the men, and, receding, the undertow sucked at their feet and tried to drag them under.  It did not seem possible that a boat could be launched in such a sea.  With scarcely a word of command, however, every man, knowing from long practice his position and specific duties, took his station on either side of the buoyant craft and, rushing into the surf, launched her; climbing aboard, every man took his appointed place, while the keeper, a long steering-oar in his hands, stood at the stern.  All pulled steadily, while the steersman, with a sweep of his oar, kept her head to the seas and with consummate skill and