Looking in the direction the guard pointed, Blake and Joe caught a glimpse of a distant black object rising and falling at the mercy of the wind and waves. It was the hull of a vessel, and when Blake used the glass the guard handed him a moment later, he could see the jagged stumps of broken masts.
“She’s in a bad way,” remarked the lad, gravely.
“Indeed she is,” assented the life saver.
“I wonder if my father is in any such storm as this, on his way to China?” mused Joe, as he, too, looked through the binoculars.
“It’s a bad storm—and a big one, too,” said the guard. “But I must hurry on and give the alarm to the fishermen. The ship will strike soon, and we want to send a line aboard if we can.”
“Wait!” cried Blake, as the man started off. “We’ll tell the fishermen. You can go back to the station. We’ll come to help as soon as we can, and bring all the men we can find.”
“Good!” shouted the man. “It’ll take some time to get the apparatus in shape, and we’ll have to drag it up the beach from the station, to about the place where she’ll come on the rocks. Go ahead, give the alarm, and I’ll go back. Whew! But this is a fierce storm!”
“Come on!” cried Blake to his chum, and they raced toward the little fishing hamlet.
“Say!” shouted Joe. “I’ve got an idea!”
“What is it?”