vast cataracts of snow-white surf that shone, dimly radiant, in the
fitful moonlight. The sky was covered with broken clouds, and a rising
storm-wind blew in gusts along the cliffs. The peace of the night was
utterly shattered, the shining glory had departed. A wild and desolate
grandeur had succeeded it.

"Shouldn't wonder if there was some trouble tonight," said Adam, awaking
to the tumult.

"Lor' bless you!" said Mrs. Peck sensibly. "Wait till it comes."

The hint of impatience that marked her speech was not without reason,
for a gale was to Adam as the sound of a gun to a sporting-dog. It
invariably aroused him, even from the deepest slumber, to a state of
alert expectation that to a woman as hard-working as Mrs. Peck was most
exceptionally trying. When Adam scented disaster at sea there was no
peace for either. As she was wont to remark, being the wife of the
lifeboat coxswain wasn't all jam, not by any manner of means it wasn't.
She knew now, by the way Adam turned, and checked his breathing to
listen, that the final disturbance was not far off.

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!"