She herself feigned sleep, possibly in the hope of provoking him to consideration for her weariness; but she knew the effort to be quite futile even as she made it.  Adam the coxswain was considerate only for those who might be in peril.  At the next heavy gust that rattled the windows he flung the bedclothes back without the smallest thought for his companion’s comfort, and tumbled on to his feet.

“Just going to have a look round,” he said.  “I’ll lay the fire in the kitchen, and you be ready to light it in a jiffy if wanted!”

That was so like Adam.  He could think of nothing but possible victims of the storm.  Mrs. Peck sniffed, and gathered the bedclothes back about her in expressive silence.  It was quite useless to argue with Adam when he got the jumps.  Experience had taught her that long since.  She could only resume her broken rest and hope that it might not be again disturbed.

Adam pulled on his clothes with his usual brisk deftness of movement and went downstairs.  The rising storm was calling him, and he could not be deaf to the call.  He had belonged to the lifeboat ever since he had come to man’s estate, and never a storm arose but he held himself ready for service.

His first, almost instinctive, action was to take the key of the lifeboat house from its nail in the kitchen.  Then, whistling cheerily below his breath, he set about laying the fire.  The kettles were already filled.  Mrs. Peck always saw to that before retiring.  There was milk in the pantry, brandy in the cupboard.  According to invariable custom, all was in readiness for any possible emergency, and having satisfied himself that this was the case, he thrust his bare feet into boots and went to the door.

It had begun to rain.  Great drops pattered down upon him as he emerged, and he turned back to clap his sou’wester upon his head.  Then, without further preparation, he sallied forth.

As he went down the road that ran to the quay a terrible streak of lightning reft the dark sky, and the wild crash of thunder that followed drowned even the roaring babel of the sea.

It did not check his progress; he was never one to be easily daunted.  It was contrary to his very nature to seek shelter in a storm.  He went swinging on to the very edge of the quay, and there stood facing the violence of the waves, the fierce turmoil of striving elements.

The tide was extraordinarily high—­such a tide as he believed he had never seen before in summer.  He stood in the pouring rain and looked first one way, then the other, with a quick birdlike scrutiny, but as far as his eyes could pierce he saw only an empty desolation of waters.  There seemed none in need of his help that night.

“I wonder if Rufus is awake,” he speculated to the angry tumult.

Nearly three miles out from the Spear Point there was a lighthouse with a revolving light.  That light shone towards him now, casting a weird radiance across the tossing water, and as if in accompaniment to the warning gleam he heard the deep toll of the bell-buoy that rocked upon the swell.