sloop's forefoot in place of the snarling teeth of low
crunching rocks.

He had kicked off both shoes by this time and was shouting out
directions to Baxter, who was slowly and surely being sucked into the
swirl:--

"Up with your jib! No,--NO! Let that mainsail alone! UP! Do ye want to
git her on the stone pile, you? Port your helm! PORT! O GOD!--Look at
him!!"

Captain Joe had slid from the platform now and was flopping his great
body over the slimy, slippery rocks like a seal, falling into water
holes every other step, crawling out on his belly, rolling from one
slanting stone to another, shouting to his men, every time he had the
breath:--

"Man that yawl and run a line as quick as God'll let ye--out to the
buoy! Do ye hear? Pull that fall off the drum of the h'ister and git
the end of a line on it! She'll be on top of us in a minute and the
mast out of her! QUICK!"

Jimmy sprang for a coil of rope; Billy and the others threw themselves
after him; while half a dozen men working around the small eddy in the
lee of the diminutive island caught up the oars and made a dash for the
yawl.

All this time the sloop, under the uplift of the first big Montauk
roller,--the skirmish line of the attack,--surged, bow on, to
destruction. Baxter, although shaking with fear, had sense enough left
to keep her nose pointed to the stone pile. The mast might come out of
her, but that was better than being gashed amidships and sunk in thirty
feet of water.

Captain Joe, his rubber suit wet and glistening as a shiny porpoise,
his hair matted to his head, had now reached the outermost rock
opposite the doomed craft, and stood near enough to catch every
expression that crossed Baxter's face, who, white as chalk, was holding
the tiller with all his strength, cap off, his blousy hair flying in
the increasing gale, his mouth tight shut. Go ashore she must. It would
be every man for himself then. No help would come,--no help COULD come.
Captain Joe and his men would run for shelter as soon as the blow fell,
and leave them to their fate. Men like Baxter are built to think this
way.

All these minutes--seconds, really,--Captain Joe stood bending forward,
watching where the sloop would strike, his hands outstretched in the
attitude of a ball-player awaiting a ball. If her nose should hit the
sharp, square edges of one of the ten-ton blocks, God help her! She
would split wide open like a melon. If by any chance her forefoot
should be t