be anything doing in the moving picture line today, I guess."
"Say, that's some surf!" cried Joe in his chum's ear, as they got to the sandy stretch. "Look at those waves!"
"I guess they're what you call 'mountain high,'" answered Blake, himself yelling, for their ordinary voices could not be heard above the thunder of the surf and the roar of the gale.
They stood for a few minutes watching the big rollers pounding on the sand, and then, looking down the strand, they saw a figure running toward them.
"Here comes a life guard," remarked Joe.
"And he acts as if something was up," added Blake.
Nearer came the man, dressed in yellow oilskins, for the spray from the sea flew far inland, almost like rain. Joe and Blake had on rubber coats.
"What is it?" cried Blake, as the man came opposite.
He held his hands in funnel shape and yelled:
"A wreck—a big sailing vessel is coming ashore! Her masts are gone, and she can't get off! She'll strike soon. I want all the men I can get to help us with the breeches buoy. We can't launch our boat—too heavy surf!"
