of the storm,
halted, gave a convulsive stagger, than plunged into the smother. For a
minute or two no one on deck could have told what had happened. The
shriek of the hurricane through her cordage, the harsh roaring of the
tempest-whipped sea, and the vengeful boom of the waves as they threw
their tons of water on the deck of the sturdy vessel made the senses
reel.

But the engines of the _Miami_ throbbed on steadily in defiance of the
tempest's fury. The Coast Guard cutter, like every member of her crew,
was picked for service, for stern and exalted service. Hurricanes might
hurl their monstrous strength upon her, eager billows might snatch at
her with their crushing gripe, shoals and reefs might hunger greedily
with foam-flecked fangs, still the _Miami_ plowed on through the storm.
From realms unknown where the elements hold council of discord, the
forces of destruction launched themselves upon her, but the white ship
of rescue steadily steamed on, with her lights quietly burning and her
officers and crew going about their duties in calm and perfect
confidence.

Morning broke with that blue-gray veiling of the world in a covering of
storm that sailors know so well. It was one of those mornings when the
best of ships looks worn and drazzled. The _Miami_ showed scars from her
night's battle with the tempest. One of the starboard boats had been
stove in, and the davits twisted with the force of a wave that had come
aboard. Even the most rigid discipline and the most perfect order failed
to make the little vessel trim. There was an "out all night" appearance
to the cutter which told--more than great actual damage could have
done--the dogged endurance of the vessel against the fury of wind and
sea.

But, down in the engine-room, the unceasing metal fingers that are the
children of men's brains throbbed steadily, and the screw of the little
vessel drove her on to her work of rescue. On deck, the Coast Guard men,
clear-eyed and determined, handled their day's routine with a sublime
disregard of the dangers of the sea. Other vessels might scurry to safe
harbors, but the _Miami_, flying the colors of Uncle Sam, set out on her
mission to save, with never a moment's halting.

On the _Miami_ drove. Presently, the crow's-nest lookout reported a
steamer. She was one of the big West Indian liners, and she came reeling
towards the cutter with lurchings that were alarming to behold. Only a
certain quick jauntiness of recovery to