From our position we could see both within and without the harbour; and what a contrast! Within the harbour, though the waves caused a nasty "lop," the twinkling lights of Fowey, and the oscillating anchor-lamps of scores of weather-bound vessels in the Pool, caused quite a glare in the dark, rain-laden sky; while seaward, as far as the mirk allowed one to see, was one confused tumble of white-crested waves, which, with a noise that was heard above the singing of the wind, hurled themselves against the rockbound cliffs, sending up columns of white spray, that burst in hissing showers over our shelter, 200 feet above the sea. Not the faintest glimmer of a ship's light was visible, and only the blinking eye of St. Catherine's gave out its warning red flash to break the awful desolation of the raging waves. "Bitterly cold for May," shouted my father into my ear. "We are doing no good by stopping here." "Good-night, McCallum," he added, turning towards the coastguardsman; but at that moment a pale blue light flashed upwards in the darkness. Instantly the look-out man became the personification of alertness. With his night-glass bearing in the direction of the light he waited till the signal was repeated; then, doubling across the open ground between us and the signal-hut, he proceeded to "ring up" the rest of the detachment. "A vessel in distress!" exclaimed my father; and, following the coastguardsman, we entered the hut to gain further information. "There's a ship ashore on the Cannis. Message just through from the Gribben. Mevagissey and Polkerris lifeboats called out, and our men to patrol the cliffs between Point Neptune and Pridmouth," reported the man with the abruptness of years of discipline. "If you wants to see anything of the business, sir, our chaps 'll put you across, for 'tain't likely there'll be any watermen about this sort of night." "We may as well make a night of it, Reggie," remarked my father, "though I am afraid we cannot be of much practical use. Run home as hard as you can, and bring as many biscuits as you can stow in your pockets, and rejoin me at the ferry. We may be hungry before morning." I did as I was bid, and five minutes later we were crossing the harbour in the stern-sheets of a Service gig, the boat plunging violently in the short, steep seas. On landing at White House steps (for, owing to the flood tide, it was impossible to make Ready Money Cove), we found that the news of the catastrophe had already spread, and crowds of people were hurrying along the road leading to the Gribben. Staggering against the furious gusts, we crossed the head of the Cove, finding temporary shelter in the wooded slopes of Point Neptune; but, on gaining the high ground at the back of St. Catherine's lighthouse, we were in full view of the sea, only a low fence of wire netting separating the rough path from the edge of the cliffs, against which the waves tumbled a hundred feet below.