nce of mind enough to
grasp the sides and had slid to the foot. There he had found the end of
the rope hanging and in a last flicker of understanding had tied it
around himself."

"Did he get all right again?" asked Eric eagerly.

"He was blind for six weeks, but finally recovered. Two of the men were
seven months in hospital, and one became permanently insane. Four got
'bends,' that fearful disease that strikes caisson-workers, but happily,
none died from the terrible experience."

"And the three quarters of an inch still lacking?"

"The cylinder settled just that much and no one ever had to go down the
shaft again. The caisson was filled with concrete and the air-shaft
sealed."

"And that was the final effort of the sea?"

"Not quite. A month later a storm came up and drove the steamer against
the cylinder with such force that eight of the plates--though an inch
thick and braced with rigid solidity--were crushed in. Father had taken
precautions against such an accident by having had a number of extra
plates made, and the lighthouse was finished and turned over to the
government three days before the expiration of the time required by the
contract. It was a case of man's struggle with the elements, and man
won."

"But the honors are with the caisson-men," suggested Eric.

"Yes," agreed the other, "the hero of Smith's Point lighthouse is
Griffin, the caisson-man."

CHAPTER X

ADRIFT ON A DERELICT

"Looks to me as though we're going to have a ripsnorter for Christmas,"
said Eric to his friend, Homer, the day before the festive season. "If
the sea gets much higher, Cookie won't have to stir the plum duff at
all!"

"How's that?"

"All he's got to do is to leave the raisins and the flour and the
currants and whatever else goes into the duff lying loose on a table.
The old lady is kicking loose enough to mix it up all right. Doesn't she
pitch!"

"Great cook you'd make," laughed the other. "I'm glad we don't have to
mess from your galley. But you're right about the weather. It's all
right to go hunting for derelicts, but I don't know how the deuce
anybody can be expected to find one in a sea like this!"

"We might hit her," suggested Eric, cheerfully.

"You're a hopeful prophet, you are," retorted his chum. "I'm not aching
to feed the fishes yet awhile."

"Well, we might bump, just the same. Then the _Seminole_ would have a
chance to hunt us as a derelict, and Van Sluyd--he's on her now, you
k