“There’s the devil of an undertow settin’ along this beach,” they told him, “and the water’s too cold to drownd in comfortable.”  So he laid firm hands upon his impatience.

Every day meant many dollars to the watcher, and yet it seemed that nature was resolute in thwarting him, for that night the wind freshened and daylight saw the ship hugging the lee of Sledge Island, miles to the westward, while the surf, white as boiling milk, boomed and thundered against the shore.

Word had gone through the street that Bill Wheaton was aboard with a writ, or a subpoena, or an alibi, or whatever was necessary to put the “kibosh” on McNamara, so public excitement grew.  McNamara hoarded his gold in the Alaska Bank, and it was taken for granted that there would lie the scene of the struggle.  No one supposed for an instant that the usurper would part with the treasure peaceably.

On the third morning the ship lay abreast of the town again and a life-boat was seen to make off from her, whereupon the idle population streamed towards the beach.

“She’ll make it to the surf all right, but then watch out.”

“We’d better make ready to haul ’em out,” said another.  “It’s mighty dangerous.”  And sure enough, as the skiff came rushing in through the breakers she was caught.

She had made it past the first line, soaring over the bar on a foamy roller-crest like a storm-driven gull winging in towards the land.  The wiry figure of Bill Wheaton crouched in the stern while two sailors fought with their oars.  As they gathered for their rush through the last zone of froth, a great comber rose out of the sea behind them, rearing high above their heads.  The crowd at the surf’s edge shouted.  The boat wavered, sucked back into the ocean’s angry maw, and with a crash the deluge engulfed them.  There remained nothing but a swirling flood through which the life-boat emerged bottom up, amid a tangle of oars, gratings, and gear.

Men rushed into the water, and the next roller pounded them back upon the marble-hard sand.  There came the sound of splitting wood, and then a group swarmed in waist-deep and bore out a dripping figure.  It was a hempen-headed seaman, who shook the water from his mane and grinned when his breath had come.

A step farther down the beach the by-standers seized a limp form which the tide rolled to them.  It was the second sailor, his scalp split from a blow of the gunwale.  Nowhere was Wheaton.

Glenister had plunged to the rescue first, a heaving-line about his middle, and although buffeted about he had reached the wreck, only to miss sight of the lawyer utterly.  He had time for but a glance when he was drawn outward by the undertow till the line at his waist grew taut, then the water surged over him and he was hurled high up on the beach again.  He staggered dizzily back to the struggle, when suddenly a wave lifted the capsized cutter and righted it, and out from beneath shot the form of Wheaton, grimly clutching the life-ropes.  They brought him in choking and breathless.