He was shouting towards the wreck, his
hand to his mouth.
"Send the master over next, you lubbers, or we'll cut the line. Do
you hear?"
There was no reply or, if there was, it was drowned in the wind.
Lessingham gripped the fisherman by the arm.
"Whom do you mean by 'master'?" he demanded. Dumble scarcely
glanced at his interlocutor.
"Why, Sir Henry Cranston, to be sure," was the agitated answer.
"These lubbers of sea hands are all coming off first, and the line
won't stand for more than another one or two," he added, dropping
his voice.
Then the thrill of those few minutes' excitement unrolled itself
into a great drama before Lessingham's eyes. Sir Henry was on that
ship as near as any man might wish to be to death.
"'Ere's the next," Jimmy muttered, as they turned the windlass
vigorously. "Gosh, 'e's a heavy one, too!"
Then came a cry which sounded like a moan and above it the shrill
fearful yell of a man who feels himself dropping out of the world's
hearing. Lessingham raised the lantern which stood on the beach
by Jimmy's side. The line had broken. The body of its suspended
traveller had disappeared! And just then, strangely enough, for
the first time for over an hour, the heavens opened in one great
sheet of lightning, and they could see the figure of one man left
on the ship, clinging desperately to the rigging.
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