The dory, a strong specimen of its kind, was now out of the wagon, and a score of arms dragged it over the pebbles. The surf dashed far up the beach, splashing men, boat, wagon, horses. Against the cliff the spray rose a hundred feet, hissing, into the air. The old captain eyed the sea and measured the incoming rollers with his deep-set eye.
“Ye cayn’t do it,” he pronounced. “There ain’t a dory in Windover can live in that”—he pointed his gaunt arm at the breakers.
“Anyhow, we’ll try!” rang out a strong voice. Cries from the wreck arose again. Some of the younger men pushed the dory off. Bayard sprang to join them.
“I can row!” he cried with boyish eagerness; “I was stroke at Harvard!”
“This ain’t Charles River,” replied one of the men; “better stand back, Parson.”
They kindly withstood him, and leaped in without him, four of them, seamen born and bred. They ran the dory out into the surf. He held his lantern high to light them. In their wet oil-skins their rough, wild outlines looked like divers, or like myths of the deep. They leaped in and seized the oars with one of the wild cries of the sailor who goes to his duty, his dinner, or his death, by the rhythm of a song or the thrill of a shout. The dory rose on a tremendous comber, trembled, turned, whirled, and sank from sight. Then came yells, and a crash.
“There!” howled Captain Hap, stamping his foot, “I told ye so!”
“She’s over!”
“She’s busted!”