The dory, a strong specimen of its kind, was now out of the wagon, and a score of arms dragged it over the pebbles. The surf dashed far up the beach, splashing men, boat, wagon, horses. Against the cliff the spray rose a hundred feet, hissing, into the air. The old captain eyed the sea and measured the incoming rollers with his deep-set eye. “Ye cayn’t do it,” he pronounced. “There ain’t a dory in Windover can live in _that_”--he pointed his gaunt arm at the breakers. “Anyhow, we’ll try!” rang out a strong voice. Cries from the wreck arose again. Some of the younger men pushed the dory off. Bayard sprang to join them. “I can row!” he cried with boyish eagerness; “I was stroke at Harvard!” “This ain’t Charles River,” replied one of the men; “better stand back, Parson.” They kindly withstood him, and leaped in without him, four of them, seamen born and bred. They ran the dory out into the surf. He held his lantern high to light them. In their wet oil-skins their rough, wild outlines looked like divers, or like myths of the deep. They leaped in and seized the oars with one of the wild cries of the sailor who goes to his duty, his dinner, or his death, by the rhythm of a song or the thrill of a shout. The dory rose on a tremendous comber, trembled, turned, whirled, and sank from sight. Then came yells, and a crash. “There!” howled Captain Hap, stamping his foot, “I told ye so!” “She’s over!” “She’s busted!” “She’s smashed to kindlin’ wood!” “Here they be! Here they come! Haul ’em in!” The others ran out into the surf and helped the brave fellows, soaked and discomfited, up the beach. They were badly bruised, and one of them was bleeding. The pedestrians from the town had now come up; groups of men, and the few women; and a useless crowd stood staring at the vessel. A big third wave rolled over and smashed the port light. “It’s been going on all these ages,” thought Bayard,--“the helpless shore against the almighty sea.” “Only two hundred feet away!” he cried; “I _can’t_ see why _something_ can’t be done! I say, something _shall_!--Where are your ropes? Where are your wits? Where is all your education to this kind of thing? Are you going to let them drown before your eyes?” “There ain’t no need of goin’ so far’s that,” said the old captain with the aggravating serenity of his class. “If she holds till it ebbs they can clomber ashore, every man-jack of ’em. Ragged Rock ain’t an island except at flood. It’s a long, pinted tongue o’rock runnin’ along,--so. You don’t onderstand it, Parson. Why, they could eeny most _walk_ ashore, come mornin’, if she holds.” “It’s a good pull from now till sun-up,” objected a fisherman. “And it’s the question if she don’t break up.”