Indeed, although Stringer's excitement had prevented him from heeding the circumstance, an ever-freshening breeze was blowing in his face, and he noted now that, quite mechanically, he had removed his bowler hat at some time earlier in the pursuit and had placed it in the bottom of the boat. His hair was blown in the wind, which sang merrily in his ears, and the cutter, as her course was slightly altered by Rogers, ceased to roll and began to pitch in a manner very disconcerting to the lands-man. “It'll be rather fresh outside, sir,” said one of the men, doubtfully. “We're miles and miles below our proper patrol”... “Once we're clear of the bank it'll be more than fresh,” replied Rogers; “but if they're bound for France, or Sweden, or Denmark, that's OUR destination, too!”... On--and on--and on they drove. The Nore Light lay astern; they were drenched with spray. Now green water began to spout over the nose of the laboring craft. “I've only enough juice to run us back to Tilbury, sir, if we put about now!” came the shouted report. “It's easy to TALK!” roared Rogers. “If one of these big 'uns gets us broadside on, our number's up!”... “Cutter putting over for Sheppey coast, sir!” bellowed the man in the bows. Stringer raised himself, weakly, and sought to peer through the driving spray and rain-mist. “By God! THEY'VE TURNED--TURTLE!”... “Stand by with belts!” bellowed Rogers. Rapidly life belts were unlashed; and, ahead, to port, to starboard, brine-stung eyes glared out from the reeling craft. Gray in the nascent dawn stretched the tossing sea about them; and lonely they rode upon its billows. “PORT! PORT! HARD A-PORT!” screamed the lookout. But Rogers, grimly watching the oncoming billows, knew that to essay the maneuver at that moment meant swamping the cutter. Straight ahead they drove. A wave, higher than any they yet had had to ride, came boiling down upon them... and twisting, writhing, upcasting imploring arms to the elements--the implacable elements--a girl, a dark girl, entwined, imprisoned in silken garments, swept upon its crest! Out shot a cork belt into the boiling sea... and fell beyond her reach. She was swept past the cutter. A second belt was hurled from the stern... The Eurasian, uttering a wailing cry like that of a seabird, strove to grasp it... Close beside her, out of the wave, uprose a yellow hand, grasping--seeking--clutching. It fastened itself into the meshes of her floating hair... “Here goes!” roared Rogers. They plunged down into an oily trough; they turned; a second wave grew up above them, threateningly, built its terrible wall higher and higher over their side. Round they swung, and round, and round... Down swept the eager wave... down--down--down... It lapped over the stern of the cutter; the tiny craft staggered, and paused, tremulous--dragged back by that iron grip of old Neptune--then leaped on--away--headed back into the Thames estuary, triumphant.