can go to hell. There's five thousand in my clothes."
Brown thumped him on the back and roared:
"Of course you are, and you deserve your luck. But if you love me, come out of this. I'm a wet rag and you're worse."
For reply Brainard fought his way out along the railing of the pier, and gloried in the night. It matched his own mood. Like the sea, he had broken the bonds that for so long had held him tamed and stagnant. He was drunk with the wine of life, and the storm could not drag his whirling thoughts back to the red-roofed station beyond the Point.
Then the helpless Brown yelled in his ear:
"Turn around, Ash. Over here to the north'ard. Great Scott, what can we do?"
Brainard jumped to the note of alarm in the appeal. The moonlight still spattered across the white-fanged water. Driving along southward, close in shore, they saw a schooner, now a somber blotch, now outlined against the smother that flung itself at her. She seemed to be
