“We’re gettin’ the fat of the work this night,” Hardy said as the two left the building.
“What do you mean by that? Ain’t we going to stay out the full four hours?”
“Indeed we are, lad; but the wind won’t get up much before midnight, an’ when it does come I’m thinkin’ it will bring rain.”
“Then you believe as Mr. Cushing does?”
“I’m not lookin’, as Joe is, for anything very heavy, but allow it won’t be pleasant for the patrol who comes after us.”
Save that the wind was blowing freshly, Benny saw no indications of a storm, and whatever might have been the appearance of the sky, it would have had no meaning for him after Sam Hardy delivered his opinion.
Their beat led them past where the stranded steamer lay, now considerably more than half unloaded, and at this point a long halt was made.
As yet the surf had not risen, although the wind had been steadily increasing in force since sunset, and the lighters rose and fell on the gentle swell with but little tugging at their cables. White foam around the wreck told that the rising tide was churning against her sides; but with no more force than while the wreckers had been at work.
To Benny, particularly after hearing Hardy’s opinion, there was no reason for the life savers to feel disturbed in mind, and, when the tour of duty having come to an end, he returned to the station, it was with the belief that the repose of the crew would be undisturbed.
He was exceedingly tired, as he had been every night since the stranded steamer attracted so many visitors, and went to bed immediately after entering the building, failing to observe what at another time might have drawn his attention—that every member of the crew yet remained in the mess-room as if anticipating a sudden call to duty.