ut his scow stud still, an' the breakers came atop
as if it war a clam-shell. He warn't five yards from shore. His Ben's
aboard." Another peal of a gun from the schooner broke through the dark
and storm.

"God! I be sick o' sittin' on shor', an' watchin' men drownin' like rats
on a raft," said Joe, wiping the foam from his thick lips, and trotting
up and down the sand, keeping his back to the vessel.

Some of the men sat down, their hands clasped about their knees, looking
gravely out.

"What cud we do, Joey?" said one. "Thar be Hannah an' the children; we
kin give Hannah a lift. But as for Ben, it 's no use thinkin' about Ben
no more."

The little clam-digger Snap was kindling a fire out of the old
half-burnt wrecks of vessels.

"It's too late to give 'em warnin'," he said; "but it'll let 'em see
we're watchin' 'em at the last. One ud like friends at the last."

The fire lighted up the shore, throwing long bars of hot, greenish flame
up the fog.

"Who be them, Joe?" whispered a wrecker, as two dim figures came down
through the marsh.

"She hev a sweetheart aboord. Don't watch her."

The men got up, and moved away, leaving Miss Defourchet alone with
Doctor Dennis. She stood so quiet, her eyes glued on the dull, shaking
shadow yonder on the bar, that he thought she did not care. Two figures
came round from the inlet to where the water shoaled, pulling a narrow
skiff.

"Hillo!" shouted Doctor Dennis. "Be you mad?"

The stouter of the figures hobbled up. It was Bowlegs. His voice was
deadened in the cold of the fog, but he wiped the hot sweat from his
face.

"In God's name, be thar none of ye ull bear a hand with me? Ud ye sit
here an' see 'em drown? Benny's thar,--my Ben."

Joe shook his head.

"My best friend be there," said the old Doctor. "But what can ye do?
Your boat will be paper in that sea, Phil."

"That's so," droned out one or two of the wreckers, dully nodding.

"Curses on ye for cowards, then!" cried Bowlegs, as he plunged into the
surf, and righted his boat. "Look who's my mate, shame on ye!"

His mate shoved the skiff out with an oar into the seething breakers,
turning to do it, and showed them, by the far-reaching fire-light, old
Phebe Trull, stripped to her red woollen chemise and flannel petticoat,
her yellow, muscular arms and chest bare. Her peaked old face was set,
and her faded blue eye aflame. She did not hear the cry of horror from
the wreckers.

"Ye've a better pull than an