o' eggshell. There's only three chaps aboard as far as we could see
awhile ago. And not a hundred yards off us. But it's a hundred yards of
death, as you might say. No boat could live through it. It ain't worth
the trying."

A hundred yards of death and only three little human lives to be gained
by the awful risk of braving that hundred yards!

Bertie turned away, feeling sick, yet silently agreeing. Who could hope
to pass unharmed through that raging darkness, that tossing nightmare of
great waters? Yet the thought of those three lives beating outward in
agony and terror while he and his friends stood helplessly by took him
by the throat.

Suddenly through a lull of the tempest there came a great shout.

The clouds had drifted asunder and a few stars shone vaguely down on the
wild scene. The dim light showed the doomed vessel wedged among the
rocks that stuck up, black and threatening, through the racing foam.

Nearer at hand, huddled on the stout sea-wall, stood the little group of
watchers, their faces all turned outwards towards the two masts of the
little schooner, which remained faintly discernible through the shifting
gloom.

It was not more than a hundred yards away, Bertie realised. Yet the
impossibility of rescue was as apparent as if it had been a hundred
miles from land. He fancied he could see a couple of figures half-way up
one of the masts, but the light was elusive. He could not be certain of
this.