It was an old story to Nan and Harry, but Regie was up and off, and the body-guard must needs follow.
The station was one of those low, oblong buildings, which, dotting the coast at regular intervals, are to be found in the neighbourhood of all sea-shore resorts in the United States, and whose well-trained crew have been the means of saving many, many lives. This one little station at Moorlow had the grand record of having rescued five hundred persons in the nine years since it was established.
“What are you going to do?” asked Rex, the moment he came within speaking distance of two men who were dropping a coil of rope into a box.
“Going to have a drill,” one of them answered; “there's no telling how soon we may have a wreck, and we must be ready for it. We had two last November.”
Regie was about to say that he hoped they would have at least two this November, but realised what a dreadful wish that would be in time to check himself.
“What will be the best place to see it from?” he asked. “I would not miss any of it for the world.”
The men were amused at his earnest manner.
“That boat hull will be a good place,” said one of them; “but you'd better understand about things first. You see we are going to fire a shell out of this here howitzer, and the shell is fastened-to this long coil of rope, so that when it goes whizzing away to the wreck it carries this rope—the whip-line we call it—with it.”
“Yes, but where's your wreck?” Regie queried.