A note in that answering voice caught Bowen’s ear.  “Say, Nelson, that’s not one of the tug’s regular crew!”

“I don’t know.  I don’t t’ink, but he ban a foolish man,” replied Nelson—­“he should lash himself.”

“Stand by with the line!” came again.

“By!” echoed tensely from astern.

“Ready!”

“All ready!”

“When she lifts!  Now—­w—­”

From the top of a sea the line came whistling down to the light-ship rail.  “I’ll take it,” called Bowen, and, loosing his hold of the stay, he reached out and caught the flying line to his breast.  “A good throw,” he muttered, and hauled it in.

The hawser followed the heaving line, and Nelson and Bowen, with life-lines about them, bent the stubborn end of it around the windlass.  It was heavy work, even for two men, on the tumbling, slippery deck, and, that done, they turned, anxiously, to see how the man in the stern of the tug was making out.  He was there, back to, bending the thick stubborn bight about the towing bitts with slow, heavy motions.  They saw one great sea break over him; and another:  but when the seas were past there he was still working away.

“Won’t he never mak’ him fast?” wailed Nelson.

“Give him time,” snapped Bowen.  “He’s doing well.  He’s got to do it right.  If his end came loose, where would we be?  Give him time.”

Nelson looked significantly shoreward.  “Time?”

“How’s she coming, Bud?” they heard then.

“Bud?  And that sounds like his voice, too,” muttered Bowen.

“Wa-atch out!” Even with the roar of it Nelson and Bowen could hear the warning from the pilot-house to the man in the stern of the tug.  A tremendous sea it was and the little Whist went over—­over.  Over until her side-lights were under.  There she held for a moment, started to rise, and then a following sea caught her and overbore her and that time she rolled low enough to take salt water down her funnel.

She came back—­after a time.  Up, up, nobly; but when they next looked from the light-ship they could see no figure in her stern.  Bowen leaned far over the light-ship’s rail.  Nothing there, but he called to Nelson for the torch, and Nelson let it flare out over the water.

Then Bowen saw him.  Almost under the bow of the light-ship he was, and the big torch was throwing a light like blood on his face.  “It is him!” cried Bowen.

“Vat iss?” demanded the puzzled Nelson, and then under the light he, too, saw the face in the tossing waters.

Bowen, with a life-line under his arms was already over the side.  But his plunge fell short.  Nelson heard a sound as of a man’s voice smothering, saw a hand raised and lowered, and then into the tossing blackness the lone figure was swept.

Nelson hauled Bowen aboard.  When he recovered his first word was, “God, Nelson, that was Harty!”

“Harty, wass it?  I don’t know him, but he was one goot man.”