A strong head-wind met us in the Channel, and the backers of daylight had almost given up hope; but it dropped in the late afternoon, and by the log we were evidently in for a close finish.  Mr. Olstein had set his watch by the ship’s chronometer, and consulted it from minute to minute.  He stood by me, binocular in hand, and grew paler with excitement as sunset drew on and the minutes scored off the guesses one by one from the list.  His guess was among the last, but not actually the last by half a dozen.

We had reached a point when five minutes disposed of no less than nine guesses.  The weather was dull:  no one could tell precisely if the sun had sunk or not.  We were certainly within twenty miles of the rock, and by the Nautical Almanack, unless our chronometer erred, the light ought to flash out within sixty seconds.  If within forty the man sang out from the crow’s-nest, Mr. Olstein would lose; after forty he had a whole minute and a half for a clear win.

The forty seconds passed.  Mr. Olstein drew a long breath of relief.  “But why the devil don’t they light up?” he demanded after a moment.  “I call you to witness what the time is by our chronometer.  I’ll have it tested as soon as I step ashore, and if it’s wrong I’ll complain to the Company; if it’s not, I’ll send the Trinity House a letter’ll lay those lighthouse fellows by the heels!  Punctuality, sir, in the case of shipping—­life or death—­”

The cry of the man in the crow’s-nest mingled with ours as a spark touched the north-eastern horizon almost ahead of us—­trembled and died—­shone out, as it seemed, more steadily—­and again was quenched.

Mr. Olstein slapped his thigh.  He had won something like ten pounds and was a joyous millionaire.  “That makes twice in four voyages,” he proclaimed.

I congratulated him and strode forward.  A group of third-class passengers had gathered by the starboard bow.  They, too, had heard the cry.  To all appearance they might have been an ordinary Whitechapel crowd, and even now they scarcely lifted their voices; but they whispered and pointed.

“The Eddystone!”

I singled out my friend the baker.  Before I could reach him he had broken from the group.  I hailed him.  Without seeming to hear, he disappeared down the fore-companion.  But by and by he emerged again, and with a baby in his arms.  Evidently he had torn it from its cot.  His wife followed, weak and protesting.

The child, too, raised a wail of querulous protest; but he hugged it to him, and running to the ship’s side held it aloft.

“England, baby!”

It turned its head, seeking the pillow or its mother; and would not look, but broke into fresh and louder wailing.

“England!”

He hugged it afresh.  God knows of what feeling sprang the tears that fell on its face and baptized it.  But he hushed his voice, and, lifting the child again, coaxed it to look—­coaxed it with tears streaming now, and with a thrill that would not be denied—­