Larry was glad enough to do so.  Fortunately he had brought some extra underwear in his valise, and, after a good rub-down before the stove, he donned the garments, and then put on a pair of the fisherman’s trousers and an old coat, until his own clothes could dry.

As he sat before the stove, warm and comfortable after the drenching, and safe from the storm, which was now raging with increased fury outside, Larry heard the deep booming of the signal guns coming to him from across the angry sea.

“Are they in any danger?” he asked of Bailey, as the fisherman prepared to get a meal.

“Danger?  There’s always danger on the sea, my boy.  I wouldn’t want to be on that vessel, and I’ve been in some pretty tight places and gotten out again.  She went ashore in a fog early this morning, but it will be a good while before she gets off.  Seven Mile Beach hates to let go of a thing once it gets a hold.”

It was getting dusk, and what little light of the fading day was left was obscured by the masses of storm clouds.  The fisherman’s hut was on the beach, not far from the high-water mark, and the booming of the surf on the shore came as a sort of melancholy accompaniment to the firing of the signal gun.

“Where is the wreck?” asked Larry, going to a window that looked out on the sea.

“Notice that black speck, right in line with my boat on the beach?” asked Bailey, pointing with a stubby forefinger over the young reporter’s shoulder.

“That thing that looks like a seagull?”

“That’s her.  You can’t see it very well on account of the rain, but there she lies, going to pieces fast, I’m afraid.”

“Why didn’t they get the people off before this?”

“Captain wouldn’t accept help.  Thought the vessel would float off and he’d save his reputation.  The life savers went out when it was fairly calm, but didn’t take anyone ashore.  Now it’s too late, I reckon.”

As the fisherman spoke a rocket cleaved the fast-gathering blackness and shot up into the air.

“What’s that?” asked Larry.

“She’s firing signal lights.  Wait and you’ll see the coast-guard send up one in reply.”

Presently a blue glare, up the beach not far from the cottage, shone amid the storm and darkness.

“That’s George Tucker, burning a Coston light,” explained Bailey.  “He patrols this part of the beach to-night.  They may try the boat again, but it’s a risk.”

There was an exchange of colored lights between the beach patrol and those on the steamer.  Larry watched them curiously.  He tried to picture the distress of those aboard the ship, waiting for help from shore; help that was to save them from the hungry waves all about.

“I wonder how I’m going to get news of this to the paper,” Larry asked himself.  He was beginning to feel quite worried, for he realized a great tragedy might happen at any moment, and he knew the Leader must have an account of it early the next morning, for it was an afternoon paper.  The managing editor would probably order an extra.