"It's the gun of the Chief! Van Note's goin' down!" he cried, with a horrible oath, and hobbled off, followed by the other men. "His little brother Benny be on her," said Joe. "May God have mercy on their souls!" He had climbed like a cat to the rafters, and thrown down two or three cables and anchors, and, putting them over his shoulders, started soberly for the beach, stopping to look at Miss Defourchet, crouched on the floor of the store. "You'd best see after her, Doctor. Ropes is all we can do for 'em. No boat ud live in that sea, goin' out." Going down through the clammy fog, his feet sinking in the marsh with the weight he carried, he could see red lights in the mist, gathering towards shore. "It's the wrackers goin' down to be ready for mornin'." And in a few moments stood beside them a half-dozen brawny men, with their legs and chests bare. The beach on which they stood glared white in the yellow light, giving the effect of a landscape in Polar seas. One or two solitary headlands loomed gloomily up, covered with snow. In front, the waters at the edge of the sea broke at their feet in long, solemn, monotonous swells, that reverberated like thunder,--a death-song for the work going on in the chaos beyond. "Thar's no use doin' anything out thar," said one of the men, nodding gloomily to a black speck in the foaming hell. "She be on the bar this ten minutes, an' she 's a mean-built craft, that Chief." "Couldn't a boat run out from the inlet?" timidly ventured an eager, blue-eyed little fellow. "No, Snap," said Joe, letting his anchor fall, and clearing his throat. "Well, there be the end of old Ben, hey? Be yer never tired, yer cruel devil?" turning with a sudden fierceness to the sly foam creeping lazily about his feet. There was a long silence. "Bowlegs tried it, but his scow stud still, an' the breakers came atop as if it war a clam-shell. He warn't five yards from shore. His Ben's aboard." Another peal of a gun from the schooner broke through the dark and storm. "God! I be sick o' sittin' on shor', an' watchin' men drownin' like rats on a raft," said Joe, wiping the foam from his thick lips, and trotting up and down the sand, keeping his back to the vessel. Some of the men sat down, their hands clasped about their knees, looking gravely out. "What cud we do, Joey?" said one. "Thar be Hannah an' the children; we kin give Hannah a lift. But as for Ben, it 's no use thinkin' about Ben no more." The little clam-digger Snap was kindling a fire out of the old half-burnt wrecks of vessels. "It's too late to give 'em warnin'," he said; "but it'll let 'em see we're watchin' 'em at the last. One ud like friends at the last." The fire lighted up the shore, throwing long bars of hot, greenish flame up the fog. "Who be them, Joe?" whispered a wrecker, as two dim figures came down through the marsh. "She hev a sweetheart aboord. Don't watch her."