ews up to your paper from here to-night," replied the fisherman.
"The nearest telegraph office is closed. Better stay here until
morning. Then you can do something. I'll fix you up with oilskins
after supper, if you like, and we'll go out on the beach. But I
don't believe they'll launch the life-boat to-night."

The storm had now settled down into a fierce, steady wind and
dashing rain. It fairly shook the little hut, and the stove roared
with the draught created. Bailey soon had a hot meal ready, and
Larry did full justice to it.

"Now we'll go out on the beach," the fisherman said, as he donned
his oilskins, and got out a suit for Larry. The youth looked like
anything but a reporter when he put on the boots and tied the
yellow hat under his chin, for otherwise the wind would have whipped
it off in an instant.

They closed up the hut, leaving a lantern burning in it, and started
down toward the ocean. Through the darkness Larry could see a line
of foam where the breakers struck the beach. They ran hissing over
the pebbles and broken shells, and then surged back again. As the
two walked along, a figure, carrying a lantern and clad as they
were, in yellow oilskins, loomed up in the darkness.

"Hello, George!" cried Bailey, above the roar of the wind. "Going to
get the boat out?"

"Not to-night. I signalled down to the station, but they flashed
back that the surf was too high. We'll try the buoy in the morning,
if the ship lasts that long, which I'm afraid she won't, for she's
being pounded hard."

"The station where they keep the life-boat is about two miles below
where we are now," Bailey explained to Larry. "We'll go down in the
morning."

Suddenly a series of lights shot into the air from out at sea.

"What's that?" cried Larry.

"It's a signal that she's going to pieces fast!" cried the
coast-guard. "Maybe we'll have to try the breeches buoy to-night. I
must go to the station. They may need my help."

As the beach patrol hurried up the sandy stretch, Larry had half a
notion to follow him. He wanted to see the operation of setting up
the breeches buoy in order to make a good story, with plenty of
details. He was about to propose to the fisherman that they go, when
Bailey, who had gone down to the water's edge, uttered a cry.

"What is it?" called the reporter, hastening to the side of the old
man.

"Looks like a life-raft from the steamer!" exclaimed Bailey. "She
must have broken up. Maybe there's som