Zeb snatched the glass.

“‘Pon the riggin’, Zeb, just under her lee!  I saw en move—­ a black-headed chap, in a red shirt—­”

“Right, Farmer—­he’s clingin’, too, not lashed.”  Zeb gave a long look.  “Darned if I won’t!” he said.  “Cast over them corks, Sim Udy!  How much rope have ’ee got, Jim?” He began to strip as he spoke.

“Lashins,” answered Jim Lewarne.

“Splice it up, then, an’ hitch a dozen corks along it.”

“Zeb, Zeb!” cried his father, “What be ’bout?”

“Swimmin’,” answered Zeb, who by this time had unlaced his boots.

“The notion!  Look here, friends—­take a look at the bufflehead!  Not three months back his mother’s brother goes dead an’ leaves en a legacy, ’pon which, he sets up as jowter—­han’some painted cart, tidy little mare, an’ all complete, besides a bravish sum laid by.  A man of substance, sirs—­a life o’ much price, as you may say.  Aw, Zeb, my son, ’tis hard to lose ’ee, but ’tis harder still now you’re in such a very fair way o’ business!”

“Hold thy clack, father, an’ tie thicky knot, so’s it won’t slip.”

“Shan’t.  I’ve a-took boundless pains wi’ thee, my son, from thy birth up:  hours I’ve a-spent curin’ thy propensities wi’ the strap—­ay, hours.  D’ee think I raised ’ee up so carefully to chuck thyself away ’pon a come-by-chance furriner?  No, I didn’; an’ I’ll see thee jiggered afore I ties ’ee up.  Pa’son Babbage—­”

“Ye dundering old shammick!” broke in the parson, driving the ferule of his cane deep in the sand, “be content to have begotten a fool, and thank heaven and his mother he’s a gamey fool.”

“Thank’ee, Pa’son,” said Young Zeb, turning his head as Jim Lewarne fastened the belt of corks under his armpits.  “Now the line—­not too tight round the waist, an’ pay out steady.  You, Jim, look to this.  R-r-r—­mortal cold water, friends!” He stood for a moment, clenching his teeth—­a fine figure of a youth for all to see.  Then, shouting for plenty of line, he ran twenty yards down the beach and leapt in on the top of a tumbling breaker.

“When a man’s old,” muttered the parson, half to himself, “he may yet thank God for what he sees, sometimes.  Hey, Farmer!  I wish I was a married man and had a girl good enough for that naked young hero.”

“Ruby an’ he’ll make a han’some pair.”

“Ay, I dare say:  only I wasn’t thinking o’ her.  How’s the fellow out yonder?”

The man on the wreck was still clinging, drenched twice or thrice in the half-minute and hidden from sight, but always emerging.  He sat astride of the dangling foremast, and had wound tightly round his wrist the end of a rope that hung over the bows.  If the rope gave, or the mast worked clear of the tangle that held it and floated off, he was a dead man.  He hardly fought at all, and though they shouted at the top of their lungs, seemed to take no notice—­only moved feebly, once or twice, to get a firmer seat.