A big curling sea struck her
starboard quarter too sharply, and for a dread halfminute she hung with
her port gunwale in the water as she dropped like a log down the side of
the wave. It was too cruel to last. Ferrier heard an exclamation; then a
deep groan from the skipper; and then to the left he saw a great
slate-coloured Thing rushing down. The crest towered over them, bent,
shattered with its own very velocity, and fell like a crumbling dark
cavern over the boat. There was a yell from both smacks; then the boat
appeared, swamped, with the men up to their necks; then the boat went,
sucking the men down for a time, and then Lewis Ferrier and his two
comrades were left spinning in the desperate whirls of the black eddies.
"Run to them!" yelled Tom. "Never mind if you carry everything away.
Only keep clear of the other smack." Ferrier found the water warm, and
he let himself swing passively. His thoughts were in a hurly-burly. Was
this the end of all--youth, love, brave days of manhood? Nay, he would
struggle. Had they not prayed before they set out? All must come
right--it must. And yet that spray was choking. He could not see his
companions. A yell. "Lewis, my son, I'll come over." But Tom was held
back; the smack was brought up all shaking. First the skipper caught a
rope. Good, noble old man! He was half senseless when they hauled him on
board. Then Lewis heard, as in a torpid reverie, a great voice, "Lay
hold, Lewis, and I _will_ come if you're bothered.
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