“He wants them to leave the mast and go into the mainmast,” cried Mulhatton.

“But they won’t—­see, they are shaking their heads ‘no,’” shouted Dan.  “They couldn’t; the breakers would sweep them away in a minute.”

“Look!”

For man is brave and man does fight, even in the face of injustice, in the face of odds.  Thus did Martin Loughran, in the fore rigging of the Zeitgeist, as with set jaws he struggled upward toward the stump of the topmast.  Between the trucks of the fore and maintopmasts ran a horizontal line of wire.  It is called the “triatic stay,” and Loughran was climbing to it.  Dan—­all the Fledgling’s crew and the crew of the Sovereign—­foresaw his intention, and stentorian shouts, “You can’t do it!” bounded over the water.  But the sailor did not pause, if, indeed, he heard their warnings.

Slowly, laboriously he climbed.  He stretched up one hand and grasped the stay.  Up went the other hand.  Then out against the glooming sky was limned the swaying form, working its way along the triatic stay hand over hand, in an effort to reach the mainmast.  A faint cheer came from the men in the main rigging, while two of the Fledgling’s crew cheered, and two bowed their heads in agony, and Dan sobbed aloud.

“Look at him,” cried Dan.  “Oh, God!”

“A sandy man cashin’ in,” muttered Mulhatton solemnly.

Out, out worked the swaying form.  But he had more than one hundred feet to go.  Twenty-five feet—­progress ceased.  It hung there silent, that figure—­it seemed almost an eternity.  It hung as silent as a piece of sail and as fitfully swaying.  Suddenly one hand relaxed and fell limp.  It was as though something had sucked the breath from every onlooker.  The hand was feebly raised in a futile clutch to regain the lost hold.  It fell again.  Still there was silence.

A dark form cleaved the gloom and lay in a black huddle upon the lumber amidships, until a boarding wave kindly removed it and spurned it upon the beach as it would a drowned dog.  Ten minutes later the foremast went and the life-savers, dashing into the surf, took out of the rigging a dead sea-cook.

And still the tugs lay like vultures awaiting carrion.  Both had come down to the wreck in the hope of getting a line over her and pulling her from the sands, for which there would have been ample reward.  But it was too rough to approach her and she was too far gone to warrant salving, even were it possible.  But there were men dying before their eyes and no one was lifting a hand.  Dan was in a red-headed glare of emotion.  He was too young to look upon such things calmly.  He turned his eyes from the wreck to the Sovereign, just as her bow went up on a wave, showing the red underbody.  And it reminded him of the yawning mouth of some sea monster hungry for prey.

“We’re lying here like bloodsuckers!” he yelled.  “Waiting for salvage while good men are dying!  Dying—­and we’re doing nothing!  Fellows,” he roared, “I’m going to take the tug in to her.  I’m not afraid of a risk to save the lives of brave men.”