And when she hit in on the
beach--when she hit the sand--it would be over and over she'd roll, and
out of her he would come and be smothered. For a second he'd be smooth
and sleek as a wet rat and then--Oh, then!
Even in moderate weather, what chance would they have in that surf? And
to-night it would be to her mast-head, with combers curving like a
rattlesnake's neck, and twisting, and hissing, and they would catch him
up, and ten ways he'd go then, gurgling, smothering, drowning, and his
body, if ever it did come ashore for anybody to find,--after a December
night,--they'd find it frozen stiff.
The walls of the little engine house were icing up, the spray was
freezing on his moustache--surely a proper night for a man's enemy to be
lost. In the lee of the little shack he lit a cigar; but it would not
stay lit, and he threw it from him. The curse which he hove after it
brought an answering hail from across the dock, "Hullo there"! Harty
drew back, but the hurrying step drew nearer, and suddenly the hurrying
form was beside him, and a pair of eyes were peering at him.
"Who's this? Why, hullo, Bud! What you doin' here?"
"Who's that? Oh, hello, Baldy. Where'd you come from?"
"From the _Whist_--where else? Told the crew to beat it--all except old
Pete. Holidays don't mean anything to Pete, so he's sleeping aboard. A
wild night, Bud.
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