One mast was very far forward, the other very far aft--Great Lake rig;
and between the two was a deck-load of thousands of feet of Maine
lumber. The topmasts had snapped off, leaving the stumps.
Lashed in the foremast were two men; and in the mainmast were Captain
Ephraim Sayles and three more of his crew. At first glance they seemed
lifeless; at first glance, indeed, they seemed nothing more than faded
lengths of canvas. But an occasional lifting of a hand, a flash of a
gray face, showed that they were men and that they still lived and
hoped. Under them, over the deck raced the breakers, waist deep, each
one a swift, excited trip-hammer. It was only the lumber that was
holding the aged hull together. As it was, sections of the sides had
ripped out and planks and pieces of deal issuing from the gashes
littered the waters. Three times had the life-savers launched their
boats, and three times they had been cast on the beach like logs, while
thrice had the lines from their mortars fallen short.
"Go on back; we'll take care of her."
And Dan, his teeth bared and coated with blood from anger-bitten lips,
gave the wheel to Mulhatton, ran from the pilot-house, and shook his
fist at the big wrecking tug.
"Why don't you take care of her then, curse you! Why don't you take
care of her? Don't you see there are lives to save? Oh, you cowardly
beasts!"
"Nothin' doin' till the sea goes down," came the reply, and Dan sobbed
aloud in his rage as he entered the pilot-house, where most of the crew
were gathered, peering out of the windows at the tragedy across the
waters.
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