t always serves me in this way,
lad," continued the smith, without pausing for a moment in his work.
"Blow away, Ruby, the sea is my greatest enemy. Every day, a'most, it
washes me away from my work. In calm weather, it creeps up my legs,
and the legs o' the forge too, till it gradually puts out the fire,
and in rough weather it sends up a wave sometimes that sweeps the
whole concern black out at one shot.

"It will _creep_ you out to-day, evidently," said Ruby, as the water
began to come about his toes.

"Never mind, lad, we'll have time to finish them picks this tide, if
we work fast."

Thus they toiled and moiled, with their heads and shoulders in smoke
and fire, and their feet in water.

Gradually the tide rose.

"Pump away, Ruby! Keep the pot bilin', my boy," said the smith.

"The wind blowin', you mean. I say, Dove, do the other men like the
work here?"

"Like it, ay, they like it well. At first we were somewhat afraid o'
the landin' in rough weather, but we've got used to that now. The
only bad thing about it is in the rolling o' that horrible _Pharos_.
She's so bad in a gale that I sometimes think she'll roll right over
like a cask. Most of us get sick then, but I don't think any of 'em
are as bad as me. They seem to be gettin' used to that too. I wish I
could. Another blow, Ruby."

"Time's up," shouted one of the men.

"Hold on just for a minute or two," pleaded the smith, who, with his
assistant, was by this time standing nearly knee-deep in water.

The sea had filled the pit some time before, and driven the men out
of it. These busied themselves in collecting the tools and seeing
that nothing was left lying about, while the men who were engaged on
those parts of the rocks that were a few inches higher, continued
their labours until the water crept up to them. Then they collected
their tools, and went to the boats, which lay awaiting them at the
western landing-place.

"Now, Dove," cried the landing-master, "come along; the crabs will be
attacking your toes if you don't."

"It's a shame to gi'e Ruby the chance o' a sair throat the very first
day," cried John Watt.

"Just half a minute more," said the smith, examining a pickaxe, which
he was getting up to that delicate point of heat which is requisite
to give it proper temper.

While he gazed earnestly into the glowing coals a gentle hissing
sound was heard below the frame of the forge, then a gurgle, and the
fire became suddenly dark and w