Only the night before she
and her uncle had figured out the _Curlew's_ course homeward-bound from
her last port of call. She might pass in sight of Cardhaven Head and
the lighthouse any day now.
The thought sobered Louise. Clinging to I. Tapp's arm she went nearer
to the spot where the surfmen had brought their gear and boat.
The sea beyond the line of surf--between the strand and the reef--was
foam-streaked and broken, a veritable cauldron of boiling water. The
captain of the life-saving crew shrank from launching the boat into
that wild waste.
If the line could be shot as far as the reef the moment the schooner
struck, a breeches buoy could be rigged with less danger and, perhaps,
with a better chance of bringing the ship's company safely ashore.
"'Tis a woeful pickle of water," Washy Gallup shrieked in Louise's ear.
"And the wind a-risin'. 'Tis only allowed by law to shoot a sartain
charge o' powder in the pottery little gun. Beyond that, is like to
burst her. But mebbe they can make it. Cap'n Jim Trainor knows his
work; and 'tis cut out for him this day.
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