Charles Morgan’s name followed in regular order, and then Parks—­men who had sailed with Captain Holt, and whose word and pluck he could depend upon; and Mulligan from Barnegat, who could pull a boat with the best of them; and last, and least in years, those two slim, tightly knit, lithe young tiger-cats, Tod and Archie.

Captain Nat had overhauled each man and had inspected him as closely as he would have done the timber for a new mast or the manila to make its rigging.  Here was a service that required cool heads, honest hearts, and the highest technical skill, and the men under him must be sound to the core.  He intended to do his duty, and so should every man subject to his orders.  The Government had trusted him and he held himself responsible.  This would probably be his last duty, and it would be well done.  He was childless, sixty-five years old, and had been idle for years.  Now he would show his neighbors something of his skill and his power to command.  He did not need the pay; he needed the occupation and the being in touch with the things about him.  For the last fifteen or more years he had nursed a sorrow and lived the life almost of a recluse.  It was time he threw it off.

During the first week of service, with his crew about him, he explained to them in minute detail their several duties.  Each day in the week would have its special work:  Monday would be beach drill, practising with the firing gun and line and the safety car.  Tuesday was boat drill; running the boat on its wagon to the edge of the sea, unloading it, and pushing it into the surf, each man in his place, oars poised, the others springing in and taking their seats beside their mates.  On Wednesdays flag drills; practising with the international code of signals, so as to communicate with stranded vessels.  Thursdays, beach apparatus again.  Friday, resuscitation of drowning men.  Saturday, scrub-day; every man except himself and the cook (each man was cook in turn for a week) on his knees with bucket and brush, and every floor, chair, table, and window scoured clean.  Sunday, a day of rest, except for the beach patrol, which at night never ceased, and which by day only ceased when the sky was clear of snow and fog.

This night patrol would be divided into watches of four hours each at eight, twelve, and four.  Two of the crew were to make the tramp of the beach, separating opposite the Station, one going south two and a half miles to meet the surfman from the next Station, and the other going north to the inlet; exchanging their brass checks each with the other, as a record of their faithfulness.

In addition to these brass checks each patrol would carry three Coston signal cartridges in a water-proof box, and a holder into which they were fitted, the handle having an igniter working on a spring to explode the cartridge, which burned a red light.  These will-o’-the-wisps, flashed suddenly from out a desolate coast, have sent a thrill of hope through the heart of many a man clinging to frozen rigging or lashed to some piece of wreckage that the hungry surf, lying in wait, would pounce upon and chew to shreds.