“Besides,” added the captain, “it is as with any other business—­the best crew is surest of employment and pay.  Each owner of a wracking-boat chooses his men for their muscle and skill:  and the wracking-master chooses the best boat and crew.  There’s competition, competition.  On the contrary, the life-saving service, like all other government work, for a good many years fell into the hands of politicians:  the superintendent was chosen because he had given some help to his party, and he appointed his own friends as lifeboat-men, often tavern loafers like himself.  A harness-maker from Bricksburg held the place of master of the station below here for years—­a man who probably never was in a boat, and certainly would not go in one in a heavy sea.”

“One would hardly expect to find fishermen in this solitary corner of the world struggling for political preferment on the seats of a lifeboat,” laughed one of the party.

But the captain could see no joke in it:  “Well, sir, it’s a fact that it was done.  And the consequence was, the people’s money was thrown away, and hundreds of human beings was left to perish within sight of land.  If the administration—­”

But while the captain and his companions labor over the well-trodden road thus opened, we will look into the work done in the house on the beach with the help of authorities more accurate than himself and Jacob.

Oddly enough, the first effort anywhere to stop the enormous loss of human life by shipwreck was made by that most selfish of rulers, George IV., and the first lifeboat was built by a London coachmaker, Lukin, who, it is said, had never seen the sea.  After that other models of lifeboats were produced in England, none of which proved satisfactory until in 1850 the duke of Northumberland offered one hundred guineas as a prize for the best model, which was gained by James Beeching.  A modification of his boat is now used by the National Lifeboat Institution, to which the entire care of the English life-saving service is committed.  There is probably no object on which the British nation has more zealously expended sentiment, enthusiasm and money than this service, yet despite its grand record of work done there can be no doubt that it has been grossly mismanaged, and is ineffective to cope with the actual need.  The roll of the National Lifeboat Institution numbers names of the most noble, humane and wealthy men and women in Great Britain; the queen is its patron; its resources are amply sufficient; no pains have been spared to secure the most scientific and perfect appliances.  The whole work is made, in a degree, a matter of sentiment—­exalted and humane sentiment, but, like all other emotional service, apt to be gusty and at times unpractical.  The man who saves human life is rewarded with silver or gold medals:  the individual lifeboats are themes of essays and song, and when one wears out a tablet is raised with the record of its services.