The driver has pulled his sou'wester hat down on his neck behind and swung the U. S. L. S. S. lantern on his arm; he stands beside the forward wheel, cracks his long whip and swears vigorously.
“Hold on a minute, boys,” he calls over his shoulder; and he must shout it twice before he is heard. “Whoa, there! Stand back! Now, boys, get your breath and try it together. When I call——— Now. All ready! Let her go!”
The men throw themselves on the spokes, the horses plunge forward under the lash of the whip. A moment of straining—an uncertain moment—then the wheels turn slowly forward, the horses' feet draw out with a sucking sound, and the boat rolls ahead. The driver unbuttons his oilskins at the waist and reaches beneath an under coat for his watch. They have been out two hours; distance covered, two miles. Before him is darkness, save where the lantern throws a yellow circle on the ground; behind him is darkness, save for the white boat, the little group of panting, grunting men, and, a long mile to the southward, the gleaming eye of the Grosse Pointe lighthouse, now red, now white. But somewhere in the darkness ahead, somewhere beyond the white of the breakers, a big steamer is pounding herself to pieces on the bar. So he buttons his coat and shifts the reins and swears at the horses. He seems to swear easily, this young fellow; but he is thinking of the poor devils on the big steamer, lashed to the mast perhaps, if the masts are still standing; and he is wondering how many of them will ever ship again.
A huge bonfire lighted up beach and breakers. Around it huddled a motley crowd, students in rain-coats or sweaters, sober citizens and residents of the north shore, fishermen, and all the village loafers. But the students were in the majority and were making most of the noise. It was they who had built the fire, raiding fences and wood-yards to send up a blaze that should tell the poor fellows out yonder of the warmth and comfort awaiting them on shore—if they should ever get in through the surf. They were cheering, too, giving the college yells and shouting out inspiriting messages—as if any noise below the sound of a gun or a steam fog-horn could hope to be heard over the roar of the lake! But this was a great occasion and must be made the most of.
Of course no such body of students could act in concert without a recognized leader; and the young man who claimed the honour could be distinguished at a glance. Now issuing orders to the foragers, now mounting the pile to adjust with a flourish the top barrel and to pour out the last can of kerosene, now heading the war-dance around the crackling fire or leading the yells with an improvised baton, always in evidence, as busy and breathless as though his labours had an aim—was a long-faced, long-legged student. He wore a cap that was too small to hide his curly chestnut hair. His face was good-natured, if flushed with the responsibilities of his position. His rain-coat thrown aside, he stood attired in a white sweater with a wide-rolling collar, and a pair of striped trousers that fitted close to his nimble legs.
“Hi, there! Here they come!”
A small boy was shouting. He had been stationed on the bluff; and now he was sliding down, using his trousers as a toboggan on the steep clay. “Here they come!”
The news spread. “Here they come!” was passed from mouth to mouth. Those who had gone out of the firelight, in order to get a glimpse of the hulk that stood out dimly against the horizon, now came running back and joined their voices to the cheer that was rising.
Yes, they had come. A Coston signal was burning up on the bluff; and half a hundred pair of legs were running up the beach to lend a hundred hands in getting a ton and more of surf-boat down the ravine road. The tall young man led the way, thanks to the nimble legs, and called over his shoulder as he ran: