Sanford from his rock had also been watching the sea. As he scanned the horizon, his quick eye caught to the eastward a huge roller pushed ahead of the increasing wind, piling higher as it swept on. “Look out for that sea, Captain Joe! Hold fast, men,—hold fast!” he shouted, springing to a higher rock. Hardly had his voice ceased, when a huge green curler threw itself headlong on the Ledge, wetting the men to their arm-pits. Captain Joe had raised his eyes for an instant, grasped the chain as a brace, and taken its full force on his broad back. When his head emerged, his cap was gone, his shirt clung to the muscles of his big chest, and the water streamed from his hair and mouth. Shaking his head like a big water-dog, he waved his hand, with a laugh, to Sanford, volleyed out another rattling fire of orders, and then held on with the clutch of a devil-fish as the next green roller raced over him. It made no more impression upon him than if he had been an offshore buoy. The fight now lay between the rising sea and the men tugging at the watch-tackle. After each wave ran by the men gained an inch on the tightening line. Every moment the wind blew harder, and every moment the sea rose higher. Bowles was twice washed from the rock on which he stood, and the newcomer, who was unused to the slime and ooze, had been thrown bodily into a water-hole. Sanford held to a rock a few feet above Captain Joe, watching his every movement. His anxiety for the safe erection of the system had been forgotten in his admiration for the superb pluck and masterful skill of the surf-drenched sea-titan below him. Captain Joe now moved to the edge of the anchor enrockment block, standing waist-deep in the sea, one hand holding the hook, the other the ring. Six inches more and the closure would be complete. In heavy strains like these the last six inches gain slowly. “Give it to ’er, men—all hands now—give it to ’er! Pull, Caleb! Pull, you —— ——!” (Air full of Greek fire.) “Once more—all together —— ——!” (Sky-bombs bursting.) “All to—” Again the sea buried him out of sight, quenching the explosives struggling to escape from his throat. The wind and tide increased. The water swirled about the men, the spray flew over their heads, but the steady pull went on. A voice from the platform now called out,—it was that of Nickles, the cook: “Life-boat’s a-poundin’ bad, sir! She can’t stan’ it much longer.” Carleton’s voice shouting to Sanford from the platform came next: “I’m not going to stay here all night and get wet. I’m going to Keyport in the Screamer. Send some men to catch this life-boat.” The captain raised his head and looked at Nickles; Carleton he never saw. “Let ’r pound an’ be damned to ’er! Go on, Caleb, with that tackle. Pull, ye”—Another wave went over him, and another red-hot explosive lost its life.