baffled the elements at their own wildest sport? Fishermen stared from
the shore at this unparalleled exhibition of skill, coolness, courage
and strength from _Scud_.

Then, with the spite of which only a white squall is capable, it
thundered against Scud, and with the animosity of which only the
Atlantic Ocean is capable, it rose upon Scud and well-nigh bore him
under. Hope is easily dashed in the hearts of inert spectators, but Scud
did not falter. The crowd stood by commenting:

"Scud! Thet Scud? Poor Betty! Poor widder! We'll hev ter fish him up
ter-night. Plucky fellow! Brave deed! That's grit! Thar's skill! Who'd
'a' thought it? _Scud!_"

But Scud the "easy," Scud the do-little, Scud the good-for-naught--Scud,
of whom nobody expected anything--comfortable, self-indulgent Scud,
rowed on sturdily straight out into that hell. Could he ever overtake
the boat? How was it possible? If he did the extra weight would swamp
the fancy tender, built only to carry two or three at the most in light
weather. How could he get one in?

"Why the ---- didn't he take his dory?" asked an old man.

"How in ---- can he bring her up with a haulin'-line an' git in from the
rocks?" answered another contemptuously.

"Scud may get 'em," ventured an expert, "but what'll he do with 'em?"

Now Scud had rowed beyond the net to the right, in order to bear down
upon it the easier.

"Thar she strikes! God help 'em!" Cries came from a dozen throats. The
sail-boat struck against the leader of the net. It swung broadside to
the wind, that forced it over and under. Agonized shrieks were borne to
the shore. I was glad that Mabel was a fainting woman.

For some time Scud's wife had stood apart and looked upon the scene. Her
eyes were dry and feverish. She did not talk. She hugged a baby at her
breast desperately. Salt held a pair of twins; the oldest girl another.
Children sprawled upon the ground, clinging to their mother's feet and
dress. None drew near or spoke to this pathetic group. What could one
do? What word could one say? The storm swayed Betty here and there. Her
hair waved in the hurricane. She had long, pretty hair. Spray drenched
her. She did not cry out. She stood like the Niobe of the sea. She
looked like one expecting the fate that had been only delayed. An
average of two hundred men a year from this fishing-town are swallowed
up by the ocean that affords them sustenance, and their starving widows
are left after them. Betty was