One day the waves seemed to viciously break near the shore, and the bathers all followed the rope out to where there were swells instead of breakers.  Mr. Putchett was there, of course, with little Alice.  He seemed perfectly enamored of the water, and delighted in venturing as far to the sea as the rope would allow, and there ride on the swells, and go through all other ridiculously happy antics peculiar to ocean-lovers who cannot swim.

Suddenly Mr. Putchett’s hand seemed to receive a shock, and he felt himself sinking lower than usual, while above the noise of the surf and the confusion of voices he heard some one roar: 

“The rope has broken—­scramble ashore!”

[Illustration:  HE THREW UP HIS HAND AS A SIGNAL THAT THE LINE SHOULD BE DRAWN IN.]

The startled man pulled frantically at the piece of rope in his hand, but found to his horror that it offered no assistance; it was evident that the break was between him and the shore.  He kicked and paddled rapidly, but seemed to make no headway, and while Alice, realizing the danger, commenced to cry piteously, Mr. Putchett plainly saw on the shore the child’s mother in an apparent frenzy of excitement and terror.

The few men present—­mostly boarding-house keepers and also ex-sailors and fishermen—­hastened with a piece of the broken rope to drag down a fishing-boat which lay on the sand beyond reach of the tide.  Meanwhile a boy found a fishing-line, to the end of which a stone was fastened and thrown toward the imperiled couple.

Mr. Putchett snatched at the line and caught it, and in an instant half a dozen women pulled upon it, only to have it break almost inside Mr. Putchett’s hands.  Again it was thrown, and again the frightened broker caught it.  This time he wound it about Alice’s arm, put the end into her hand, kissed her forehead, said, “Good-by, little angel, God bless you,” and threw up his hand as a signal that the line should be drawn in.  In less than a minute little Alice was in her mother’s arms, but when the line was ready to be thrown again, Mr. Putchett was not visible.

By this time the boat was at the water’s edge, and four men—­two of whom were familiar with rowing—­sat at the oars, while two of the old fishermen stood by to launch the boat at the proper instant.  Suddenly they shot it into the water, but the clumsy dip of an oar turned it broadside to the wave, and in an instant it was thrown, waterlogged, upon the beach.  Several precious moments were spent in righting the boat and bailing out the water, after which the boat was safely launched, the fishermen sprang to the oars, and in a moment or two were abreast the buoy.

Mr. Putchett was not to be seen—­even had he reached the buoy it could not have supported him, for it was but a small stick of wood.  One of the boarders—­he who had swamped the boat—­dived several times, and finally there came to the surface a confused mass of humanity which separated into the forms of the diver and the broker.