before--and then they writhed, those chains, like a
stricken rattlesnake, for perhaps three seconds, and S-s-t!--quick as
that--they went whistling into the boiling sea. Off she sprang
then--Bowen could no more than have snapped his fingers ere she was
off--foolishly, wildly, and then, almost as suddenly as she had leaped,
she fetched up. It was as if she didn't know just what to do in her new
freedom. And while she paused, the sea swept down and caught her one
under the ear. Broadside she broached and aboard her foamed the
ceaseless sea, and the wind took her. And whing! and bing! and
Kr-r-r-k!--that was the life-boat splintered and torn loose. And sea,
and wind, and tide, all working together on old 67, away she went before
it.

Inshore, they knew, the high surf was booming; and they made sail then,
and for a while thought they could weather it; but when the whistling
devils caught the rotten, age-eaten, untested canvas--whoosh! countless
strips of dirty, rusty canvas were riding the clouded heavens like some
unwashed witches.

[Illustration: By and by he caught an answering call]

Tide and wind were taking her toward the beach, and Bowen, everybody,
even the unimaginative viking in command, could picture that beach and
the surf piling up on it. High as the light above their heads it would
be, and they would live just about ten seconds in it. Yes, if they were
lucky, they might last that long.

Bowen was one of those workmen who like to make a good job of a thing.
He was not ready to send his first wireless message. Another morning's
work and he had hoped to be ready, and that first message was to be a
Christmas greeting to his wife; but now he made shift to get a message
away in some fashion. With limber wrist and fingers he began to snap out
his signal number. A dozen, twenty, surely a hundred times he repeated
the letters, holding up every half minute or so to listen. By and by he
caught an answering call. It was the Navy Yard station. Feverishly he
sent:

"Light-ship 67. Tide Rip Shoal. Have parted moorings. Drifting toward
beach. Send help."

He waited for an answer. None came. He repeated. No answer. Over and
over he sent it. At last he caught: "OK. Been getting you. Go on."

"Drifting fast. West by south. Before morning will be in surf."

Again Bowen waited, and then the answer came: "What do you want me to
do?"

"Do something to save us."

"Why don't you do something to save yourself?"

"Sails