"Very well," said I; "she'll get her second wetting, anyhow. Lend a

hand."

"She'll carry us both," commented the old man, stepping to the side of

the stubby little craft.

"But she'll be lighter and ride easier with but one," was my reply. "A

chip is dry on top only as long as it's a chip."

"Let me go along," said Jean Lafitte, stepping up at this time.

"You'll do nothing of the sort, my son," said I. "Go back to the

ladies and make a fire, and make a shelter," said I. "I'll be here

again before long."

The news of the new adventure now spread among our little party. Mrs.

Daniver began sniffling. "Helena," I heard her say, "this is

terrible." But meantime I was pulling off my sweater and fastening on

a life belt. Nodding to Peterson, we both picked up the dingey, and

when the next sea favored, made a swift run in the endeavor to break

through the surf.

"Let go!" I cried to him, as the water swirled about our waist. "Go

back!" And so I sprang in alone and left him.

For the time I could make small headway, indeed, had not time to get

at the oars, but pushing as I might with the first thing that came to

hand, I felt the bottom under me, felt again the lift of the sea carry

me out of touch. Then an incoming wave carried me back almost to the

point whence I had started. In such way as I could not explain, none

the less at length the little boat won through, no more than half

filled by the breaking comber. I worked first as best I might,

paddling, and so keeping her off the best I could. Then when I got the

oars, the stubby yawing little tub at first seemed scarce more than to

hold her own. I pulled hard--hard as I could. Slowly, the line of

white breakers passed astern. After that, saving my strength a trifle,

I edged out, now angling into the wind, now pulling full into the

teeth of the gale. Even my purpose was almost forgotten in the

intensity of the task of merely keeping away from the surf. Dully I

pulled, reasoning no more than that that was the thing for me to do.

It had seemed a mile, that short half-mile between the yacht and the

beach. It seemed a hundred miles now going back to the boat. I did not

dare ask myself how I could go aboard if even I won across so far as

the yacht. It was enough that I did not slip backward to the beach

once more. Yawing and jibbing in the wind which caught her stubby

freeboard, the little boat, none the less, held up under me, and once

she was bailed of the surf, rode fairly dry in spite of all, being far

more buoyant than either of the other craft. Once in the dark, I saw

something thrust up beside me and fancied it to be a stake, marking

the channel which pierced the key hereabout. This was confirmed in my

mind when, presently, as rain began to fall and the fog lessened for

the time, I saw the blurred yellow lighthouse eye answering the

wavering search-light of the Belle Helène, which swept from side to

side across the bay as she rolled heavily at her anchor. In spite of

the hard fight it had given me, I was glad the wind still held

inshore. I knew the point of the little island lay not far beyond the

light. Once adrift beyond that, not the Belle Helène herself would

be safe, in this offshore wind, but must be carried out into the gulf

beyond.




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