ASHORE ON A RAFT
"What's that?" asked the young reporter, pausing.
"She's firing for help," replied the fisherman. "Can't last much
longer now."
"Can't the life savers do anything?"
"They'll try, as soon as they can. Hard to get a boat off in this
surf. It comes up mighty fast and heavy. Have to use the breeches
buoy, I reckon. But come on, and I'll lend you some dry things to
put on."
Five minutes later Larry was inside the hut. It was small,
consisting of only two rooms, but it was kept as neatly as though it
was part of a ship.
In a small stove there was a blazing fire of driftwood, and Larry
drew near to the grateful heat, for, though it was only late in
September, it was much colder at the beach than in the city, and he
was chilly from the drenching.
"Lucky I happened to see you," Bailey went on. "I went down to the
train to get my paper. One of the brakemen throws me one off each
trip. It's all the news I get. I didn't expect any one down. This
used to be quite a place years ago, but it's petered out. But come
on, get your wet things off, and I'll see what I can do for you."
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.
"Couldn't I go down to the life-saving station?" asked Larry. "Maybe
I could go out in a boat and get some news."
"They wouldn't let you, and, if they would, you couldn't send any
news up to your paper from here to-night," replied the fisherman.
"The nearest telegraph office is closed. Better stay here until
morning. Then you can do something. I'll fix you up with oilskins
after supper, if you like, and we'll go out on the beach. But I
don't believe they'll launch the life-boat to-night."
The storm had now settled down into a fierce, steady wind and
dashing rain. It fairly shook the little hut, and the stove roared
with the draught created. Bailey soon had a hot meal ready, and
Larry did full justice to it.
"Now we'll go out on the beach," the fisherman said, as he donned
his oilskins, and got out a suit for Larry. The youth looked like
anything but a reporter when he put on the boots and tied the
yellow hat under his chin, for otherwise the wind would have whipped
it off in an instant.
They closed up the hut, leaving a lantern burning in it, and started
down toward the ocean. Through the darkness Larry could see a line
of foam where the breakers struck the beach. They ran hissing over
the pebbles and broken shells, and then surged back again. As the
two walked along, a figure, carrying a lantern and clad as they
were, in yellow oilskins, loomed up in the darkness.
"Hello, George!" cried Bailey, above the roar of the wind. "Going to
get the boat out?"
"Not to-night. I signalled down to the station, but they flashed
back that the surf was too high. We'll try the buoy in the morning,
if the ship lasts that long, which I'm afraid she won't, for she's
being pounded hard."
"The station where they keep the life-boat is about two miles below
where we are now," Bailey explained to Larry. "We'll go down in the
morning."
Suddenly a series of lights shot into the air from out at sea.
"What's that?" cried Larry.
"It's a signal that she's going to pieces fast!" cried the
coast-guard. "Maybe we'll have to try the breeches buoy to-night. I
must go to the station. They may need my help."
As the beach patrol hurried up the sandy stretch, Larry had half a
notion to follow him. He wanted to see the operation of setting up
the breeches buoy in order to make a good story, with plenty of
details. He was about to propose to the fisherman that they go, when
Bailey, who had gone down to the water's edge, uttered a cry.
"What is it?" called the reporter, hastening to the side of the old
man.
"Looks like a life-raft from the steamer!" exclaimed Bailey. "She
must have broken up. Maybe there's some one on this. Give me a hand.
We'll try to haul it ashore when the next high wave sends it up on
the beach."
Larry strained his eyes for a sight of the object. He could just
discern something white, rising and falling on the tumultuous
billows.
"Come on!" cried Bailey, rushing down into the first line of surf,
as a big roller lifted the object and flung it onward. "Grab it and
pull!"
Larry sprang down the sand. He waded out into the water, surprised
to find how strong it was even in the shallow place. He made a grab
for the dim white object. His hands grasped a rope. At the same time
the fisherman got hold of another rope.
"Pull!" cried Bailey, and Larry bent his back in an effort to snatch
the raft from the grip of the sea.
At first the waves shoved the raft toward them, then, as the waters
receded, the current sucked it out again. But the fisherman was
strong and Larry was no weakling. They hauled until they had the
raft out of reach of the rollers. Then, while there came a wilder
burst of the storm, and a dash of spray from the waves, Bailey
leaned over the raft.
"There's a man lashed to it!" the fisherman cried. "We must get him
to my shack and try to save him! Hurry now!"