enough you must rub him dry, with some muslin
that I'll give you, and then merely wait till he's well."

In that wretched, reeking hole Ferrier improvised a Russian bath with a
blanket or two, a low stool, and a lamp turned down moderately low. He
helped to hold up his man until the sweat came, first in beads, and then
in a copious downpour; he wrapped him up, and did not leave till the
patient professed himself able to get up and walk about. The men merely
gaped and observed the miraculous revival with faith unutterable. Then
our young man bade good-bye, merely saying, "You'll keep your berth for
a couple of days, and then signal us if you want me."

The sky was ragged and wild with the tattered banners of cloud; the sea
was inky dark, and the wind had an iron ring. The Mission vessel had
dropped to leeward of the fishing smack, and the boat had about three
hundred yards to go. But what a three hundred yards! Great black hills
filled up the space and flowed on, leaving room for others equally big
and equally black. The sides of these big hills were laced with lines of
little jumping hillocks, and over all the loud wind swept, shearing off
tearing storm-showers of spray. An ugly three hundred yards!

"Well, how is it now, skipper?"

"Neck or nothing, sir. You can stop here if you like."

"Oh, no! Mr. Lennard would have apoplexy. Let us try. It can't be worse
than it was in coming."

"Good-bye, sir. I'm sorry my comrades hadn't the risk instead of you.
I'll take good care you don't attend one of _them_."

Home, happiness, fame! The face of Marion Dearsley. Images of peace and
love.--All these things passed through Lewis Ferrier's mind as he
prepared for that black journey. A dark wave swung the boat very high.
"Will she turn turtle?" No. But she was half full. "Bale away, sir."
Whirr, went the wind; the liquid masses came whooping on. One hundred
yards more would have made all safe, though the boat three times pitched
the oars from between the tholepins. A big curling sea struck her
starboard quarter too sharply, and for a dread halfminute she hung with
her port gunwale in the water as she dropped like a log down the side of
the wave. It was too cruel to last. Ferrier heard an exclamation; then a
deep groan from the skipper; and then to the left he saw a great
slate-coloured Thing rushing down. The crest towered over them, bent,
shattered with its own very velocity, and fell like a crumbling dark
cavern over the b