father's lips.

Still the captain refused to go, when urged. "No," he said, "let the
men go first."

So, one by one, the men were safely hauled on shore.

"Now, captain, it's your turn at last," said our hero, approaching him.

He still hesitated. Then the stout Coastguardsman absolutely lifted him
into the lifebuoy.

"No time for ceremony," he said, with a smile, giving the signal with
his lantern, "the brig's going fast. Tell 'em to look sharp on shore,
for I'm gettin' used up with all this work."

Away went the captain, and in a few minutes back came the lifebuoy. Not
a moment too soon. Blackbeard sprang in as the mizzen-mast snapped with
a report like a cannon, and went over the side. The next wave broke up
the wreck itself. Before the lifebuoy had gained the shore it was
plunged into the sea, out of which it no longer rose, the support of the
wreck being gone. The men on shore now hauled on the rope with
desperate energy, for a few minutes more would be sure to settle the
question of life or death. Through the surging breakers and over the
rugged rocks the lifebuoy was dragged, and a shout of relief arose when
the gallant Coastguardsman was seen clinging to it. But he was
insensible, and it was with difficulty that they loosened the grip of
his powerful hands.

Then they bore him up the cliffs and laid him in his own bed, and looked
anxiously upon his deadly white face as they covered him with blankets,
applied hot bottles to his feet, and chafed his cold, stiff limbs.

At last there came a fluttering sigh, and the eyelids gently opened.

"Where am I?" he asked faintly.

A young man having the appearance of a clergyman, laid his hand gently
on his shoulder.

"All right, Tom!" he said; "through the goodness of the Lord you're
saved, and fourteen souls along with you."

"Thank God!" said Tom Thorogood fervently, and, as he said so, the tide
of life once more coursed strongly through his veins, and brought back
the colour to his manly face.

CHAPTER FOUR.

The great city was sound asleep. It was the deadest hour of the night,
if we may apply that term to three o'clock in the morning, the hour at
which most people have sought and found their pillows. Late revellers
had ceased to shout and sing, early risers had yet a good hour of rest
before them, if not more. Of course there were many wakeful sick folk--
ah! how many in that mighty hive called London! But these did not
disturb the