-m--you surely think well of people, Baldy."

"No more strain than to think bad of 'em. But what'd be the use? Us two
an' old Pete, who'll be sleepin' aboard, c'n run her, Bud."

And they had put out in the _Whist_, and now down in the combined engine
and fire-room of her were Harty and old Pete toiling to keep steam up. A
notorious little craft, the _Whist_, one of those legacies which
sometimes fall to the Service; the department always going to fix her
up, and always putting it off until the next appropriation. Her old
boilers leaked, and in a sea-way her old seams gaped, and what between
keeping steam up and her bilge pumped out, Harty and Pete could hardly
find time to brace their feet whenever she attempted, as she did about
every fifteen seconds, to heave them across the floor.

To the wheel of the _Whist_ was Baldwin, and as with every dive of the
plunging _Whist_ the spray scattered high above her bows, so through the
open windows of the pilot-house came barrels of it, and not a spoonful
that didn't go to his drenching.

"But it's a good thing to get good and wet at first," reflected Baldwin,
"then you won't be worryin' any more about it." It was not only wet, but
cold. But naturally, too, when you're a-wrecking to sea of a cold
winter's night you just got to expect a few little discomforts.

The ancient _Whist_ rolled down, down, down, and jumped up, up, up; but
mostly she went down, and while she was down the swooping seas piled
over her. However, all right so far; an hour now since she had left the
breakwater, and there she was still afloat. No telling always about
those wheezy little wrecks of tugs. Baldwin looked out and back toward
her stern, almost with pride. Going since the Civil War, she'd been, and
still afloat. Must have been some little original virtues in her planks
that pleased old Neptune, and so he passed her up. Maybe she'd never
been caught in the open seas on a night like this; well, maybe not, but
you betcher she wasn't afraid of it.

Straight out from the breakwater Baldwin kept her going. Slow, heavy,
pounding work; and now two hours gone, and no light-ship yet. He swung
her about, a ticklish feat, and paralleled the beach to the north, and
just off the beach, after an hour of northing, he spied the distress
signals--two, three, yes, and four big torches.

The countless white-plumed riders were charging by, but straight for the
drifting lights, straight down the line of roaring troo