"Matt Martin his name is. The Lucy B. was the vessel's. Coal to Havana. Mate washed overboard last night. He's a good skipper, is Martin; looks like that youngster in the white shirt there."
"We'll find him at high-water mark in a day or so," bellowed Fritz Wagenhals. "My Gott, I wish—no, the boat is no good here."
The young man shot his fist seaward.
"I'll try to swim out with a line if you'll let me."
"No, you don't, you tamn fool Boy!" the keeper shouted back.
Brainard doubled along the edge of the beach like a hound baffled by a lost trail. He was almost beside himself with bitter anger at the storm that it should have wrought this cruel climax. It had come as a tremendous revelation to him that he could help to win this great fight against wind and sea. His splendid strength had some place in the world of deeds after all. Fierce joy and thanksgiving had thrilled his every fiber that in this hour he was permitted to be one of the Tarpon Inlet crew. Now to be robbed of the life of the captain of the vessel, to stand like wooden men and let him die who had stayed by his ship for duty's sake—this was more than profoundly sad, it was maddening.
Blindly scouting a little way up the beach, Brainard glimpsed a bit of wreckage rearing shoreward, carried beyond the other watchers by some freak of the undertow. It looked like all the other sorry fragments of the schooner, but a second glance showed him a white patch gleaming against the black timber. It might be the tattered foam, but a wild hope halted him in his tracks, and he stood staring at the tumbling mass. The white patch did not vanish, it seemed to move as if writhing against its background, and now he was sure he saw it move. To wait an instant longer was to see the bit of wreckage pounded in the surf as by Titan sledge-hammers. He tore into the first line of foam, head down, arms extended. A few tripping strides, and a wall of water crashed down upon him, solid and resistless. Stunned as he was he dove by instinct, and caught breath beyond the breaker. The fragment of wreckage to which something was clinging rode a few yards beyond him. Again he was flung down and tossed shoreward, and again he dove with fast weakening effort, nor could he see that behind him the other surfmen were struggling to reach him in a hard-gripped human chain.
As he rose the jagged timber was hurled straight at him.
As he rose, the jagged timber was hurled straight at him like a projectile. He tried to dodge it, flinging out an arm to clutch at something white half wrapped round it. A broken nail or bolt caught his clothing, and dragged him headlong. While he threw his arms about the timber he felt the rags of his trousers tear loose, and he shook himself free of the deadly hold. He was no more than conscious that something stirred as if alive beneath his shifting grip. Presently the surfmen cheered as they hauled ashore the broken beam from which they had to pry loose two half-naked, water-logged, but living men.