Then the wind changed. That was a help. Once he trod water, looking out over the face of the sea for a sign of the boat. He saw it. It was far away and still drifting seaward, but it was upright and the coast boy knew that unless the storm began again, it could live in spite of the long swells that bore it outward.
His arms began to get numb, and a mist—he supposed it was the rain—got between him and his vision. The low banks of clouds on the horizon, too, assumed strange shapes. They looked like the gray crags at home.
Once his breath seemed to leave him and his arms grew suddenly powerless and he sank. The emersion gave him new energy. The love of life, the wild thrill of fearless conquest, swept right over him anew, and he pulled for shore. After a little he raised his right arm and sounded. The waters were up to his eyes, but he touched land. He rose and struck out again, and again, and—again.
Then he waded in and stood upon the beach, his face turned seaward.
Trevelyan's boy threw back his head and laughed at the waters and the storm.
"I beat you," he shouted passionately, "I beat you!"
* * * * *
The Lieutenant was in his office. It had been a busy day of petty annoyances and he was tired.
He leaned back in his chair and filled his pipe, packing it carefully. Then he lighted a match.
Some one fumbled at the door knob in an uncertain way; hesitated, and tried again.