The sky was ragged and wild with the tattered banners of cloud; the sea was inky dark, and the wind had an iron ring.  The Mission vessel had dropped to leeward of the fishing smack, and the boat had about three hundred yards to go.  But what a three hundred yards!  Great black hills filled up the space and flowed on, leaving room for others equally big and equally black.  The sides of these big hills were laced with lines of little jumping hillocks, and over all the loud wind swept, shearing off tearing storm-showers of spray.  An ugly three hundred yards!

“Well, how is it now, skipper?”

“Neck or nothing, sir.  You can stop here if you like.”

“Oh, no!  Mr. Lennard would have apoplexy.  Let us try.  It can’t be worse than it was in coming.”

“Good-bye, sir.  I’m sorry my comrades hadn’t the risk instead of you.  I’ll take good care you don’t attend one of them.”

Home, happiness, fame!  The face of Marion Dearsley.  Images of peace and love.—­All these things passed through Lewis Ferrier’s mind as he prepared for that black journey.  A dark wave swung the boat very high.  “Will she turn turtle?” No.  But she was half full.  “Bale away, sir.”  Whirr, went the wind; the liquid masses came whooping on.  One hundred yards more would have made all safe, though the boat three times pitched the oars from between the tholepins.  A big curling sea struck her starboard quarter too sharply, and for a dread halfminute she hung with her port gunwale in the water as she dropped like a log down the side of the wave.  It was too cruel to last.  Ferrier heard an exclamation; then a deep groan from the skipper; and then to the left he saw a great slate-coloured Thing rushing down.  The crest towered over them, bent, shattered with its own very velocity, and fell like a crumbling dark cavern over the boat.  There was a yell from both smacks; then the boat appeared, swamped, with the men up to their necks; then the boat went, sucking the men down for a time, and then Lewis Ferrier and his two comrades were left spinning in the desperate whirls of the black eddies.

“Run to them!” yelled Tom.  “Never mind if you carry everything away.  Only keep clear of the other smack.”  Ferrier found the water warm, and he let himself swing passively.  His thoughts were in a hurly-burly.  Was this the end of all—­youth, love, brave days of manhood?  Nay, he would struggle.  Had they not prayed before they set out?  All must come right—­it must.  And yet that spray was choking.  He could not see his companions.  A yell.  “Lewis, my son, I’ll come over.”  But Tom was held back; the smack was brought up all shaking.  First the skipper caught a rope.  Good, noble old man!  He was half senseless when they hauled him on board.  Then Lewis heard, as in a torpid reverie, a great voice, “Lay hold, Lewis, and I will come if you’re bothered.”  What was he doing?  Mechanically he ran the rope under the sleeve of his life-jacket; a mighty jerk seemed likely to pull him in halves as the smack sheered; then a heavy, dragging pain came—­he was being torn, torn, torn.