The plight of the lighthouse-keeper in a gale is unenviable, but it is far and away preferable to that of the lightship crew under similar circumstances. The tower may bow slightly like a tree before the storm, and the waves may cause it to shiver at times, but that is the only movement. On the lightship the crew appear to be tossed, rolled, and spun, in all directions simultaneously. The deck becomes untenable, but the men in the performance of their duties have to grope and crawl from point to point, holding on grimly with both hands when an angry sea douches them. The spherical ball overhead gyrates in an amazing manner, as if it were a pendulum bob boxing the compass. The crew have a stiff struggle, to keep everything below safe and sound, while the waves, as they come aboard, thump on the deck as if determined to smash it to splinters, and to drive the whole fabric to the bottom. To be so unlucky as to be run down by a passing craft under such conditions is certain death, as there is no hope of rescue in such maddened seas. The crew of an English ship emerged badly battered from one heavy gale. Two or three rollers got aboard, and drove their blows well home, pulverizing the lifeboat on deck, and tearing up stretches of the bulwarks by the roots. The crew were flung about like shuttlecocks. One of the hands was making his way cautiously along the deck, trying to maintain equilibrium upon an alarming incline, when a breaker struck him from behind. He grabbed the ratlins to secure himself, but his hand was wrenched away, and he was flung against the mast, where the wave left him. He was half stunned by the concussion, but a comrade, realizing his plight, dashed forward while the vessel rolled over in the other direction, grabbed the prostrate form by the collar of its coat, and dragged it into the companion-way. The man’s face was disfigured, and when bathed it was found to have been cut, or rather burst, open from the eye to the chin by the force of the blow. Bad weather tends to make the crew despondent at times, inasmuch as its persistency holds them prisoners, so that they cannot get ashore when the relief day comes round. During some seasons of the year a delay of ten or twelve days is not uncommon, owing to the weather, but the men on the relief tender are so used to hard knocks and rough seas that they do not wait for an absolute calm to achieve their purpose. Heavy risks are incurred often in order to lighten the lives of those who guard the deep by bringing them ashore as near to the scheduled date as possible.