They are landing them
as well as they can on the line."
"Of course we can," was the prompt reply. "Tell them to send as
many as they want to. We will find room for them, somehow. I'll go
upstairs and see about the fires. You'll all come back?" she
added, turning around.
"We will all come back," Lessingham promised.
They fought their way down to the beach. At first the storm
completely deafened all sound. The lanterns, waved here and there
by unseen hands, seemed part of some ghostly tableau, of which the
only background was the raging of the storm. Then suddenly, with
a startling hiss, another rocket clove its way through the darkness.
They had an instantaneous but brilliant view of all that was
happening,--saw the trawler lying on its side, apparently only a
few yards from the shore, saw the line stretched to the beach, on
which, even at that moment, a man was being drawn ashore, licked by
the spray, his strained face and wind-tossed hair clearly visible.
Then all was darkness again more complete than ever. They struggled
down on to the shingle, where the little cluster of fishermen were
hard at work with the line. Almost the first person they ran across
was Jimmy Dumble. He was standing on the edge of the breakwater
with a great lantern in his hand, superintending the line, and, as
they drew near, Lessingham, who was a little in advance, could hear
his voice above the storm.
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