He was jostled.  ‘Man the cutter!’ Boys rushed past him.  A coaster running in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one of the ship’s instructors had seen the accident.  A mob of boys clambered on the rails, clustered round the davits.  ’Collision.  Just ahead of us.  Mr. Symons saw it.’  A push made him stagger against the mizzen-mast, and he caught hold of a rope.  The old training-ship chained to her moorings quivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty rigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea.  ‘Lower away!’ He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail, and rushed after her.  He heard a splash.  ‘Let go; clear the falls!’ He leaned over.  The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks.  The cutter could be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind, that for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship.  A yelling voice in her reached him faintly:  ’Keep stroke, you young whelps, if you want to save anybody!  Keep stroke!’ And suddenly she lifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke the spell cast upon her by the wind and tide.

Jim felt his shoulder gripped firmly.  ‘Too late, youngster.’  The captain of the ship laid a restraining hand on that boy, who seemed on the point of leaping overboard, and Jim looked up with the pain of conscious defeat in his eyes.  The captain smiled sympathetically.  ’Better luck next time.  This will teach you to be smart.’

A shrill cheer greeted the cutter.  She came dancing back half full of water, and with two exhausted men washing about on her bottom boards.  The tumult and the menace of wind and sea now appeared very contemptible to Jim, increasing the regret of his awe at their inefficient menace.  Now he knew what to think of it.  It seemed to him he cared nothing for the gale.  He could affront greater perils.  He would do so—­better than anybody.  Not a particle of fear was left.  Nevertheless he brooded apart that evening while the bowman of the cutter—­a boy with a face like a girl’s and big grey eyes—­was the hero of the lower deck.  Eager questioners crowded round him.  He narrated:  ’I just saw his head bobbing, and I dashed my boat-hook in the water.  It caught in his breeches and I nearly went overboard, as I thought I would, only old Symons let go the tiller and grabbed my legs—­the boat nearly swamped.  Old Symons is a fine old chap.  I don’t mind a bit him being grumpy with us.  He swore at me all the time he held my leg, but that was only his way of telling me to stick to the boat-hook.  Old Symons is awfully excitable—­isn’t he?  No—­not the little fair chap—­the other, the big one with a beard.  When we pulled him in he groaned, “Oh, my leg! oh, my leg!” and turned up his eyes.  Fancy such a big chap fainting like a girl.  Would any of you fellows faint for a jab with a boat-hook?—­I wouldn’t.  It went into his leg so far.’  He showed the boat-hook, which he had carried below for the purpose, and produced a sensation.  ’No, silly!  It was not his flesh that held him—­his breeches did.  Lots of blood, of course.’