OVERBOARD
see him. Realizing the utter hopelessness of his plight calmed him. Having once accepted the inevitable, there was no sense in mutiny. He would live as long as he could. After that—well, after that one's troubles were past.
He had worked out of his rubber coat—his cap was long since gone—and now he struggled with his sea boots, and presently cast them off. The buoyance so gained helped wonderfully. His arms were freer for swimming and his feet no longer pulled him down. The seas seemed miles long at times. He was dragged up and up for whole minutes, the gale shrieking its fury in his ears, the water dashing itself into his eyes and mouth and nose, and then held poised for a brief moment high up between sea and sky and finally dropped sickeningly down the slant of rushing water into the next great hollow. All was turmoil and darkness. It was impossible to keep his head out of the water more than half the time, for he was rolled about like a log, and the best he could do was hold his breath and wait, then fill his lungs with the icy blast and be thankful. Somewhere about him were ships, but the nearest might now be a mile away, and even could he sight one in the impenetrable darkness those aboard would never hear his cries. Just to keep on was the only
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