Could
the little line stand the strain? That was the question. It was so
tight that it vibrated like thin wire, and it was humming musically,
monotonously. It held--the boat was moving! But the lumber was moving
too. On it came. Ten feet--a plank wrenched clear of the mass and
shot on ahead, ramming out the lifeboat's stern-board, above the water
line. Another plank, as though hurled by some sinister force, sailed
clear over Dan's head. Ten feet--the line was fraying out at the ring
bolts. Just a second now--five feet. With one bound the lumber swept
down, and past the stern of the boat, and Captain Ephraim fell to his
knees and thanked his God.
The fight off Jones Island Inlet came at a time when it meant much to
Dan. It was the deep sea, and he had measured his might with it. And
as a man is dignified by the prowess of his opponent, so was Dan
dignified by the prowess of the sea. Perhaps that was why the sea had
always called Dan--faintly, dimly; far away sometimes, but always
unmistakably. It came in every wind that blew; a voice that involved
not the sea alone, but the things it stood for--a broader, deeper life
and bigger things; more to do, a final and definite place to make. He
had never met or been influenced by the big men--the men who think and
teach and sing and do the world's work.
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