The breeze got lighter, the wet canvas flapped, and _Columbine_ hardly made steerage way. She rolled until her bulwarks touched the water and threw off fiery foam. One could not stand on her slanted deck, and blocks and spars made a hideous din. In the distance, the roar of surf rose and fell with a measured beat. Somewhere in the mist the big combers crashed upon a hammered beach. It did not matter if there was wind or not; the white band of surf had fringed the coast since the world was young. Marston found his watch dreary. There was nothing to do; nothing, that he could see, threatened, and the scattered light clouds hardly moved across the sky. He was filling his pipe when he heard a step and saw Wyndham by the wheel. He knew him by his white duck; the negro crew did not wear much clothes. "Hallo!" he said. "My watch is not up." "I was awake," Wyndham replied. "Felt I ought to get on deck. The glass is falling." "Did you feel you ought to come _after_ you noted this?" "Before," said Wyndham, dryly. "I didn't know the glass had dropped until I got a light, but it looks as if I might have stayed below. However, since I have turned out, we'll haul down the main-topsail." He gave an order and two Krooboys got to work. There was no obvious reason for lowering the sail, but when Wyndham ordered the negroes obeyed. Although they grinned with frank good-humor when Marston talked to them, he knew he did not share Wyndham's authority. Yet Harry was not harsh. When the sail was lowered Wyndham looked about. Some of the scattered clouds had rolled together and the sky was black over the land. One could scarcely feel the light wind, but the surf had got louder. Its roar came out of the dark as if heavy trains were running along the coast. "It looks ridiculous, particularly since I'd like to edge her farther off the beach, but I think we'll stow the mainsail and fore-staysail," Wyndham remarked. Marston agreed. Although he could see no grounds for shortening sail, he trusted Wyndham's judgment, and the Krooboys got to work again. The ropes, however, were stiff and swollen with the dew, and the mainsail came down slowly. The heavy folds of canvas caught between the topping-lifts; the gaff-jaws jambed on the mast. Wyndham sent a man aloft to sit upon and ride down the spar, but this did not help much, and the boom along the foot of the sail lurched with violent jerks. Blocks banged and loose ropes whipped across the deck. The sweat ran down Marston's face; he wanted to finish the job. For one thing, _Columbine_ was unmanageable while the half-lowered canvas flapped about.