With night the wind dropped and the sea assumed a placid, oily aspect. The land was now invisible, for not a light could be seen from seaward. Fortunate it was that the young airman had been compelled to undergo a course of astronomy. He hated it at the time; now he was glad, for by keeping the North Star broad on his starboard beam, he knew that he was heading towards the shores of Scotland. His task was stupendous. The drag of the boat, which contained more than a ton of the North Sea, was terrific. He was wearing badly. Cold, hunger and fatigue were telling. Almost mechanically he swotted at the heavy oars. He had lost all count of time, when he heard a faint rumble. It was the surf lashing the beach. Encouraged, yet realising that other dangers lurked on that surf-beaten shore, he rallied his remaining energies, counting each stroke as he bent to the oars. At the one thousand and eightieth stroke he desisted. Around him the water was phosphorescent and white with the backlash of the waves. His task was accomplished. Human endurance had attained its limit. He was powerless to control his water-logged craft in the breakers. All he could do was to sit tight and trust in Providence. For another five minutes the sorely-tried _Pip-squeak_ was tossed and buffeted in the broken water, until a tremendous jar announced that in the trough of the waves she had touched hard shingle. Then, like an avalanche, a cascade of foam swept completely over the boat. Frantically Pyecroft strove to grip the gunwale. Torn away by the rush of water, he was conscious of being pounded on the shingle. Then came the dreaded undertow. Vainly he attempted to grasp the rolling shingle. He felt himself being swept backwards to be again overwhelmed by the next roller, when his retrograde motion was arrested by a heavy object. It was the _Pip-squeak_. Even in the last stages of her existence Jefferson's boat seemed destined to be of service. With a final effort as the frothy water slithered past Pyecroft gained his feet. The hiss of the approaching breaker gave strength to his limbs. Stumbling, terror-stricken, and well-nigh exhausted, he contrived to win the race by inches until, realising that the dreaded enemy had fallen short, he fell on his face on the wet shingle. For some moments he lay thus until, haunted by the horrible suspicion that the rising tide would overwhelm him, he staggered a few paces until he was above high-water mark, and then collapsed inertly upon the seaweed-strewn shore. How long he lay unconscious he had no idea; but when he came to himself the moon was shining dimly through a watery haze. The tide had fallen, and with it the horrible ground-swell had disappeared.