“Press,” said Denry to the guardian at the turnstile, and went through with the ease of a bird on the wing.

“Come along,” he cried to the girls.

The guardian seemed to hesitate.

“These ladies are with me,” he said.

The guardian yielded.

It was a triumph for Denry.  He could read his triumph in the eyes of his companions.  When she looked at him like that, Ruth was assuredly marvellous among women, and any ideas derogatory to her marvellousness which he might have had at Bursley and in the train were false ideas.

At the head of the pier beyond the pavilion, there were gathered together some fifty people, and the tale ran that the second lifeboat had successfully accomplished its mission and was approaching the pier.

“I shall write an account of this for the Signal,” said Denry, whose thoughts were excusably on the Press.

“Oh, do!” exclaimed Nellie.

“They have the Signal at all the newspaper shops here,” said Ruth.

Then they seemed to be merged in the storm.  The pier shook and trembled under the shock of the waves, and occasionally, though the tide was very low, a sprinkle of water flew up and caught their faces.  The eyes could see nothing save the passing glitter of the foam on the crest of a breaker.  It was the most thrilling situation that any of them had ever been in.

And at last came word from the mouths of men who could apparently see as well in the dark as in daylight, that the second lifeboat was close to the pier.  And then everybody momentarily saw it—­a ghostly thing that heaved up pale out of the murk for an instant, and was lost again.  And the little crowd cheered.

The next moment a Bengal light illuminated the pier, and the lifeboat was silhouetted with strange effectiveness against the storm.  And some one flung a rope, and then another rope arrived out of the sea, and fell on Denry’s shoulder.

“Haul on there!” yelled a hoarse voice.  The Bengal light expired.

Denry hauled with a will.  The occasion was unique.  And those few seconds were worth to him the whole of Denry’s precious life—­yes, not excluding the seconds in which he had kissed Ruth and the minutes in which he had danced with the Countess of Chell.  Then two men with beards took the rope from his hands.  The air was now alive with shoutings.  Finally there was a rush of men down the iron stairway to the lower part of the pier, ten feet nearer the water.

“You stay here, you two!” Denry ordered.

“But, Denry—­”

“Stay here, I tell you!” All the male in him was aroused.  He was off, after the rush of men.  “Half a jiffy,” he said, coming back.  “Just take charge of this, will you?” And he poured into their hands about twelve shillings’ worth of copper, small change of rents, from his hip-pocket.  “If anything happened, that might sink me,” he said, and vanished.