the rocket. A blinding flash and deafening crash were followed by the whiz of the rocket, as it sprang with a magnificent curve far away into the surrounding darkness. This was our answer to the Southsand-Head light, which, having fired three guns and three rockets to attract our attention, now ceased firing. It was also our note of warning to the look-out on the pier of Ramsgate Harbour. ‘That’s a beauty,’ said our mate, referring to the rocket; ‘get up another, Jack; sponge her well out, Jacobs, we’ll give ’em another shot in a few minutes.’ Loud and clear were both our signals, but four and a half miles of distance and a fresh gale neutralized their influence. The look-out did not see them. In less than five minutes the gun and rocket were fired again. Still no answering signal came from Ramsgate. ‘Load the weather gun,’ said the mate. Jacobs obeyed, and I sought shelter under the lee of the weather bulwarks, for the wind appeared to be composed of penknives and needles. Our third gun thundered forth, and shook the lightship from stem to stern; but the rocket struck the rigging and made a low wavering flight. Another was therefore sent up, but it had scarcely cut its bright line across the sky when we observed the answering signal—a rocket from Ramsgate Pier. “‘That’s all right _now_, sir; _our_ work is done,’ said the mate, as he went below, and quietly turned in, while the watch, having sponged out and recovered the gun, resumed their active perambulation of the deck. I confess that I felt somewhat disappointed at the sudden termination of the noise and excitement! I was told that the Ramsgate lifeboat could not well be out in less than an hour. It seemed to my excited spirit a terrible thing that human lives should be kept so long in jeopardy, and, of course, I began to think, ‘Is it not possible to prevent this delay?’ There was nothing for it, however, but patience, so I turned in ‘all standing,’ as sailors have it, with orders that I should be called when the lights of the tug should come in sight. It seemed but a few minutes after, when the voice of the watch was again heard shouting hastily, ‘Lifeboat close alongside, sir. Didn’t see it till this moment. She carries no lights.’ I bounced out, and minus coat, hat, and shoes, scrambled on deck just in time to see the Broadstairs lifeboat rush past us before the gale. She was close under our stern, and rendered spectrally visible by the light of our lantern. ‘What are you firing for?’ shouted the coxswain of the boat. ‘Ship on the sands, bearing south,’ replied Jack, at the full pitch of his stentorian voice. The boat did not pause. It passed with a magnificent rush into darkness. The reply had been heard, and the lifeboat shot straight as an arrow to the rescue. We often hear and read of