I once knew a sailor who was washed through a port in a Biscay gale; the return sea flung him on board again.  I asked, “What did you think?”

He answered, “I thought, ‘I’m overboard.’”

“And when you touched deck again, what did you think?”

“I thought, ‘Blowed if I’m not aboard again.’”

“Did the time seem long?”

“Longer than all my lifetime.”

Not more than half a minute had passed since the hulk shook herself clear, but Larmor and Lewis had lived long.  The doctor took out the handy flask and put it to the skipper’s lips; the poor man’s eyes were bright and conscious, but his jaw hung.  He pointed to his chin, and the doctor knew that the blow of falling mast or wreckage had dislocated the jaw.

In all the wide world was there such another drama of peril and tenor being enacted?  Lewis’s hands almost refused their office; he was unsteady on his legs, but he gathered his powers with a desperate effort of the will, and set the man’s jaw.  “Stop, stop!  You mustn’t speak.  Wait.”  With a dripping handkerchief and his own belt Ferrier bound Larmor’s jaw up; then for the first time he looked for the fellows forward.

Both gone!  Oh! friends who trifle cheerily with that dainty second course, what does your turbot cost?  Reckon it up by rigid arithmetic, and work out the calculation when you are on your knees if you can.  All over the North Sea that night there were desolate places that rang to the cry of parting souls; after vain efforts and vain hopes, the drowning seamen felt the last lethargy twine like a cold serpent around them; the pitiless sea smote them dumb; the pitiless sky, rolling over just and unjust, lordly peer and choking sailor, gave them no hope; there was a whole tragedy in the breasts of all those doomed ones—­a tragedy keen and subtle as that enacted when a Kaiser dies.  You may not think so, but I know.  Forlorn hope of civilization, they met the onset of the sea and quitted themselves like men; and, when the proud sun rose at last, the hurrying, plundering, throbbing, straining world of men went on as usual; the lovers spoke sweet words; the strong man rejoiced exceedingly in his strength; the portly citizen ordered his fish for dinner, and the dead fishermen wandered hither and thither in the dark sea-depths, their eyes sealed with the clammy ooze.

That is an item in the cost of fish which occurs to a prosaic arithmetician.

Lewis Ferrier had certainly much the worst so far in his defensive battle with wind and wave.  Here was a landsman on a swept hulk with a dumb captain, a maimed man; two hands overboard, and a boy as the available ship’s company.  Never mind.  He got Larmor below, and the dogged skipper made signs by hissing and moving his fist swiftly upward.  “The rockets?” Larmor nodded, and pointed to a high locker.  Lewis found the rockets easily enough; he also found a ginger-beer bottle full of matches; but of what use would matches be in that torrent