hes their black heads appeared and disappeared
in a welter of frothy white. It was an ominous spectacle for the men on
the yacht.

Taking one of the Coston lights, Jim clambered down on the ledges. Soon
the warning red glare of the torch, held high above his head, was
illumining the rocks and breakers. He held the light aloft until it went
out, then rejoined the others.

"They're getting a boat over!" cried Stevens.

Half a dozen men, working with frantic haste, were swinging a tender out
to leeward.

"No use!" said Jim, despondently. "She won't live a minute in this sea."

Ten seconds confirmed his prediction. The yacht rolled. As the boat
struck the water a giant sea filled her. Then came darkness. The next
flash showed the boat drifting bottom up beside the larger craft.
Another tender was launched; it survived one sea, but the next
overturned it. Still a third boat met with the same fate.

Every surge was heaving the yacht nearer the breakers with dismaying
speed. A group of figures gathered amidships. Silently, with pale faces,
the boys watched the progress of the doomed craft. She was going to her
death. How could any of those on board escape?

Jim threw off his despondency.

"Now, fellows," he cried, "the minute she strikes she'll begin to pound
to pieces! Their only chance'll be to run a line ashore. We must get out
as far as we can to catch it."

Every billow buried the base of the point in snowy foam and sent the
spray flying far up its rugged front. Using the utmost caution, the boys
descended to the limit of safety. At the next flash they peered eagerly
seaward.

The yacht was almost on the Grumblers! Up she heaved on a high surge,
dropped. They caught their breaths. No! Not that time. She rose again.

Down ... down ...

Suddenly she stopped. A grinding crash reached their ears.

"She's struck!" screamed Lane.

A blaze of sheet lightning showed her, careened landward, lying
broadside toward them about one hundred feet distant. It was the
beginning of the end. Jim, clinging to a boulder far out on the
streaming ledges, now showered with spray, now buried waist-deep, was
watching every movement of the crew.

"They've made a line fast round the foremast!" he shouted back. "They're
going to send its end ashore on a barrel! Watch out!"

Presently the tossing cask was visible, drifting rapidly landward. For
the first twenty-five yards its progress was unhindered; then a
half-tide ledge barred