“I was about to read you,” he said, “how a poor fellow with a wretched life behind him died a noble death. Perhaps we can do something as grand as he did. Anyhow, we’ll try. Come, boys!” He thrust himself into his coat, and sprang down among the audience. “Come on! You know the way better than I do! If there’s anything to do, we’ll do it. Lead on, boys! I’m with you!” The audience poured into Angel Alley, with the minister in their midst. Confusion ran riot outside. The inmates of all the dens on the street were out. Unnoticed, they jostled decent citizens who had flocked as near as possible to the news-bearer. Panting and white, a hatless messenger from the lighthouse, who had run all the way at the keeper’s order to break the black word to the town, reiterated all he knew: “It’s the Clara Em! She weighed this afternoon under full canvas--and she’s struck with fourteen men aboard! I knew I couldn’t raise nobody at the old Life-Saving Station”-- “It’s t’other side the Point, anyhow!” cried a voice from the crowd. “It’s four mile away!” yelled another. “Good heavens, man!” cried Bayard. “You don’t propose to wait for _them_?” “I don’t see’s there’s anything we can _do_,” observed the old captain deliberately. “The harbor’s chockful. If anybody could do anything for ’em, some o’ them coasters--but ye see there can’t no boat _live_ off Ragged Rock in a breeze o’ wind like this.” “How far off is this wreck?” demanded Bayard, inwardly cursing his own ignorance of nautical matters and of the region. “Can’t we get up some carts and boats and ropes--and ride over there?” “It’s a matter of three mile an’ a half,” replied the mate of a collier, “and it’s comin’ on thick. But I hev known cases where a cart--Now there’s them I-talians with their barnana carts.” “You won’t get no fog with this here breeze,” contended a very ancient skipper. “What’ll you bet?” said the mate of the collier. An Italian with a fruit cart was pushed forward by the crowd; an express cart was impressed; ropes, lanterns, and a dory appeared from no one knew where, at the command of no one knew who. Bayard suggested blankets and dry clothes. The proposal seemed to cause surprise, but these supplies were volunteered from somewhere. “Pile in, boys!” cried the minister, in a ringing voice. He sprang into one of the carts, and it filled in a moment. One of the horses became frightened at the hubbub and reared. Men swore and women shrieked. In the momentary delay, a hand reached over the wheel, and plucked at Bayard’s sleeve. He flashed the lantern in his hand, and saw a woman’s strained, set face. It was Job Slip’s wife, Mari, with the little boy crying at her skirts. “Sir,” she said hoarsely, “if it’s the Clara Em, he’s aboard of her--for they shipped him at five o’clock, though they see the storm a-comin’--and him as drunk as death. But it’s true--he got it at Trawl’s--I see ’em lift him acrost the wharf an’ sling him over int’ the dory.”