For a moment he forgot the Island of San Pedro. Another door of memory had been unlocked. He was in a flood of golden light. There straight before him were the gates of paradise. He was looking at the home of God. Suddenly Henry Harper thought he could hear the voices of the angels. He strained his eyes to starboard. Real angels with wings would be a wonderful sight. The fowls of the air were in chorus, the sharks were plopping in the water, the gates of heaven were truly marvelous--orange, crimson, gold, purple, every color he had ever seen or imagined, and he had seen and imagined many, was now filling his eyes with ecstasy. At every pore of being he was sensing light and sound. He was like a harp strung up. And then in the midst of it all, there came the voice of the Old Man as he climbed on deck, with Mr. Thompson at his heels. And then ... and then ... the heavens opened ... and Henry Harper saw ... and Henry Harper saw.... There was a great plop in the water, much nearer than that of the sharks. There followed heartrending screams and cries, enough to appall the soul of man. All hands rushed to the side of the ship. "It's on'y Sailor," said the Old Man, with a drunken growl. "Let him drown." In the next instant there came another great plop in the water. "What the hell!" roared the Old Man. "Please, sir, Mr. Thompson's gone for him." "Mr. who? ... blast you!" "Mr. Thompson, sir." "Then lower the gig." The Old Man began to stamp up and down the deck, roaring like a maniac. "Lower the gig, I tell ye." His fingers were the first on the davits. "And all hands pipe up a chantey ... louder ... louder ... blast you! ... to keep off those sharks." The Old Man's voice was hoarse and terrible, as he worked like a demon to launch the boat. "Louder, louder, blast you!" he kept roaring. The smooth, dead-white bellies lay all around, shining in the sunrise. The Old Man was in a frenzy; it seemed as if the boat would never be got into the water. At last it was launched and the Old Man was the first to jump into it, still roaring like one possessed. He beat the water furiously with a piece of spar. But Mr. Thompson with the boy in tow seemed to be holding his own very well. Either the sharks had not seen them, or they dare not approach in the midst of that terrific outcry. They were soon in the boat, Mr. Thompson being a powerful swimmer; and when at last they were back on the deck of the _Margaret Carey_, the boy lay gasping and the mate stood by like some large and savage dog, shaking the water out of his eyes. "Whatever made you do that, Mr. Thompson?" expostulated the Old Man. He was a good deal sobered by the incident, and his manner showed it. Mr. Thompson did not answer. He stood glowering at a number of the hands who had gathered round. "Don't none o' you gennelmen touch that bye," he said with a slow snarl, and he pointed to the heap on the deck.