“Harry, my boy!”
The young man looked up and saw his father on the harbour wall.
“Hallo! Father!” he said sadly.
“You are too young and weak. Let some strong man go.”
“I can pull an oar as well as most of them, father,” he shouted; and then to himself: “And if I don’t get back—well—I suppose I’m not much good.”
“Let him go,” said Uncle Luke, as he held back his brother. “Hang the boy, he has stuff in him after all.”
A busy scene of confusion for a few minutes, and then once more a cheer arose, as the lifeboat, well-manned, parted the waters of the harbour, and the lanthorns forward and astern shone with a dull glare as that first great wave was reached, up which the boat glided, and then plunged down and disappeared.
One long hour of intense agony, but not for those in the boat. The energy called forth, the tremendous struggle, the excitement to which every spirit was wrought, kept off agony or fear. It was like being in the supreme moments of a battle-charge, when in the wild whirl there is no room for dread, and a man’s spirit carries him through to the end.
The agony was on shore, where women clung together no longer weeping, but straining their eyes seaward for the dancing lights which dimly crept up each billow, and then disappeared, as if never to appear again.
“Madelaine!”