“And now let’s see--we’re pretty nigh the most westerly of the bunch. Jack Kildare, he’s about east by south. If he does drag he’ll most likely miss us. Simms--the _Parker_--he’s about east by no’the and maybe two cable-lengths away. She won’t drag, I’m sure--rides easy as a gull. Jim Potter, he’s about right to fetch us--no’the-east--and those two that dropped in just to the no’the-ard of him at dark to-night--they might, too. Any of those three’ll get us in short order if they get to draggin’.” Again he held his palm up. “Gettin’ wetter--and thicker. There’ll cert’nly be hell to pay round here to-night, and the old _Pantheon_--but, Lord, she’s been through too many blows to----” The vessel leaped under him, sagged back and started to rush forward again. His quick ear caught the first of the crunching. “Stand clear of her for’ard!” he warned, and himself jumped to the protection of the foremast, as through her bow planking they heard her chain go zipping. A moment of almost a dead stop, a breath of portentous quiet, and she swung broadside to the sea. “Wa-atch out!” roared the Skipper. Aboard came the sea in tons. “Hang on! hang on!” called one to another. All clung grimly to whatever was nearest. It passed on, submerging everybody, but leaving the vessel still right side up. “Everybody all right?” called the Skipper. Each for himself answered--all but one. “Henry!” called the Skipper. “Henry Norton!” No answer. And again no answer. “I cal’late he’s gone, Skipper.” “He must be. God help him!” “And his folks, Skipper--he’s the third of his family been lost out here.” “And there’ll be more before the night’s over,” muttered one at the Skipper’s elbow. “Maybe there will,” snapped the Skipper, “but in God’s name wait till it happens. Below there-- Oh, cook, hand up a torch, and let’s see what’s to be done.” “Chain parted, Skipper.” “Well, it don’t take any magician to see that. But let’s see what else.” The chain, before parting, had torn through her iron-bound hawser hole, and three of the stout stanchions had gone as if they were cardboard. “_Some_ tide that!” observed old John Gould, and his voice was that of a connoisseur in tides. “Yes,” admitted the Skipper. “But go aloft, one of you--you, John--and see if you can see anybody comin’. There’ll be somebody down on us soon. And the rest of you stand by to put sail on her. It’ll be too much to expect that single hawser to hold her. And go aft, you Dick, and take a soundin’.” Came John’s voice from aloft. “Can’t see half a length away.” “All right, come down.” He turned toward the stern. “What water?” “Twenty fathom.” “Twenty? Drifting as fast as that? Put sail on her--the big trys’l first. Jib? No, not yet. Give this one too much headsail and she’ll be into the hummocks before you could half put the wheel down on her.” “Nineteen fathom.” “Nineteen? All right, boy, keep soundin’, and loose your jib now, fellows.” “Eighteen fathom, Skipper.”