ed hissing at him from
the chaos beyond, actually swept across him into the belly of the
sail, and tore him from his rapidly weakening hold of the spar. With
the energy of despair his hands went up and caught something, probably
a bight in the now slackened painter. In a trice he was gripping the
rail, and a second later he was safely inside the boat, and standing
shaking himself like some great Newfoundland dog.

Even now a seemingly insuperable difficulty loomed ahead. He had no
knife and was unable to let go the rope. Would he be able to take his
comrades aboard, and would the schooner keep afloat and form a
breastwork against the sea, or would it sink and, after all his
battle, drag the boat and him down with it to perdition?

Philosophizing is no help at such a time. He would try for the other
men. To leave them was unthinkable. Once more fortune was on his side.
The oars were still in the boat, lashed firmly to the thwarts--a plan
upon which he had always insisted. Watching his chance, and skilfully
manoeuvring, he succeeded in approaching the schooner stern first,
when the cable just allowed him to touch the perpendicular deck. His
shouts to the others had now quite a different ring. His words were
commands, leaving no initiative to them. They realized also that their
one and only chance for life lay in that boat; and returning hope lent
them the courage which they had hitherto lacked. After a delay which
seemed hours to the anxious captain at such a time, with skilful
handling he had got all three aboard.

Once more he was face to face with the problem of the relentless rope,
but again fortune proved to be on his side. It was the passenger, the
useless, burdensome passenger, who now held the key to the situation.
He had sensed the danger in a moment, and instantly handed the skipper
a large clasp-knife. With it to free the boat from the wreck was but
the work of a moment.

True, their position in a small open "rodney" in the middle of a dark,
rough night in the North Atlantic was not exactly enviable, especially
as the biting winter wind was freezing their clothing solid, and
steadily sapping their small stock of remaining vitality.

Yet these men felt that they had crossed a gulf almost as wide as that
between Dives and Lazarus. If they could live, they knew that the boat
could, for the ice would not clog her enough to sink her before
daylight, and as for the sea--well, as with the schooner, it was only
a