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.The wind came stronger, and sometimes a wave suddenly raged out like a mountain-cat and there was to be seen the sheen and sparkle of a broken crest.The captain, in the bow, moved on his water-jar and sat erect.»Pretty long night,« he observed to the correspondent.He looked at the shore.»Those life-saving people take their time.«»Did you see that shark playing around?«»Yes, I saw him.He was a big fellow, all right.«»Wish I had known you were awake.«Later the correspondent spoke into the bottom of the boat.»Billie!« There was a slow and gradual disentanglement.»Billie, will you spell me?«»Sure,« said the oiler.As soon as the correspondent touched the cold comfortable sea-water in the bottom of the boat, and had huddled close to the cook's life-belt he was deep in sleep, despite the fact that his teeth played all the popular airs.This sleep was so good to him that it was but a moment before he heard a voice call his name in a tone that demonstrated the last stages of exhaustion.»Will you spell me?«»Sure, Billie.«The light in the north had mysteriously vanished, but the correspondent took his course from the wide-awake captain.Later in the night they took the boat farther out to sea, and the captain directed the cook to take one oar at the stern and keep the boat facing the seas.He was to call out if he should hear the thunder of the surf.This plan enabled the oiler and the correspondent to get respite together.»We'll give those boys a chance to get into shape again,« said the captain.They curled down and, after a few preliminary chatterings and trembles, slept once more the dead sleep.Neither knew they had bequeathed to the cook the company of another shark, or perhaps the same shark.As the boat caroused on the waves, spray occasionally bumped over the side and gave them a fresh soaking, but this had no power to break their repose.The ominous slash of the wind and the water affected them as it would have affected mummies.»Boys,« said the cook, with the notes of every reluctance in his voice, »she's drifted in pretty close.I guess one of you had better take her to sea again.« The correspondent, aroused, heard the crash of the toppled crests.As he was rowing, the captain gave him some whiskey and water, and this steadied the chills out of him.»If I ever get ashore and anybody shows me even a photograph of an oar –«At last there was a short conversation.»Billie.Billie, will you spell me?«»Sure,« said the oiler.VIIWhen the correspondent again opened his eyes, the sea and the sky were each of the gray hue of the dawning.Later, carmine and gold was painted upon the waters.The morning appeared finally, in its splendor, with a sky of pure blue, and the sunlight flamed on the tips of the waves.On the distant dunes were set many little black cottages, and a tall white wind-mill reared above them.No man, nor dog, nor bicycle appeared on the beach.The cottages might have formed a deserted village.The voyagers scanned the shore.A conference was held in the boat.»Well,« said the captain, »if no help is coming, we might better try a run through the surf right away.If we stay out here much longer we will be too weak to do anything for ourselves at all.« The others silently acquiesced in this reasoning.The boat was headed for the beach.The correspondent wondered if none ever ascended the tall wind-tower, and if then they never looked seaward.This tower was a giant, standing with its back to the plight of the ants.It represented in a degree, to the correspondent, the serenity of nature amid the struggles of the individual – nature in the wind, and nature in the vision of men.She did not seem cruel to him then, nor beneficent, nor treacherous, nor wise.But she was indifferent, flatly indifferent.It is, perhaps, plausible that a man in this situation, impressed with the unconcern of the universe, should see the innumerable flaws of his life and have them taste wickedly in his mind and wish for another chance.A distinction between right and wrong seems absurdly clear to him, then, in this new ignorance of the grave-edge, and he understands that if he were given another opportunity he would mend his conduct and his words, and be better and brighter during an introduction, or at a tea.»Now, boys,« said the captain, »she is going to swamp sure.All we can do is to work her in as far as possible, and then when she swamps, pile out and scramble for the beach.Keep cool now, and don't jump until she swamps sure.«The oiler took the oars.Over his shoulders he scanned the surf.»Captain,« he said, »I think I'd better bring her about, and keep her head-on to the seas and back her in.«»All right, Billie,« said the captain.»Back her in.« The oiler swung the boat then and, seated in the stern, the cook and the correspondent were obliged to look over their shoulders to contemplate the lonely and indifferent shore.The monstrous inshore rollers heaved the boat high until the men were again enabled to see the white sheets of water scudding up the slanted beach.»We won't get in very close,« said the captain.Each time a man could wrest his attention from the rollers, he turned his glance toward the shore, and in the expression of the eyes during this contemplation there was a singular quality.The correspondent, observing the others, knew that they were not afraid, but the full meaning of their glances was shrouded.As for himself, he was too tired to grapple fundamentally with the fact.He tried to coerce his mind into thinking of it, but the mind was dominated at this time by the muscles, and the muscles said they did not care.It merely occurred to him that if he should drown it would be a shame.There were no hurried words, no pallor, no plain agitation.The men simply looked at the shore.»Now, remember to get well clear of the boat when you jump,« said the captain.Seaward the crest of a roller suddenly fell with a thunderous crash, and the long white comber came roaring down upon the boat.»Steady now,« said the captain.The men were silent.They turned their eyes from the shore to the comber and waited.The boat slid up the incline, leaped at the furious top, bounced over it, and swung down the long back of the wave.Some water had been shipped and the cook bailed it out.But the next crest crashed also.The tumbling boiling flood of white water caught the boat and whirled it almost perpendicular.Water swarmed in from all sides.The correspondent had his hands on the gunwale at this time, and when the water entered at that place he swiftly withdrew his fingers, as if he objected to wetting them.The little boat, drunken with this weight of water, reeled and snuggled deeper into the sea
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