“No passengers, I think,” said one of the fishermen; “no women, anyhow.”
“Not likely they’d be ’lowed on deck even if there was,” growled Grinder, in his monotone.
“Now, then, out o’ the way,” cried the leader of the Coast-Guard men, as he laid a rocket in its place. “Line all clear, Fred?”
“All clear.”
Next moment there was a burst of flame, a crash, and a vicious whizz as the powerful projectile leaped from its stand and sped out to sea, in grand defiance of the opposing gale, with its light line behind it.
A cheer marked its flight, but a groan told of its descent into the boiling sea, considerably to the left of the wreck.
“What a pity!” cried Shank Leather, who had come close to his friend when the rocket-cart arrived.
“No matter,” said Brooke, whose compressed lips and flashing eyes told of deep but suppressed feelings. “There are more rockets.”
He was right. While he was speaking, another rocket was placed and fired. It was well directed, but fell short. Another, and yet another, rose and fell, but failed to reach its mark, and the remainder of the rockets refused to go off from some unknown cause—either because they had been too long in stock or had become damp.
Meantime the brig was tossed farther and farther in, until she stuck quite fast. Then it became evident that she must soon break up, and her crew perish. Hasty plans and eager advice were proposed and given. Then the smart young fisherman suddenly sprang forward, and threw off his oil-coat and sou’-wester.