The boat comes back against the wind and the great seas split on each
side of the prow.

The swimmers hear Corkey.

"Lordy!" he says. "I know I hit a man then with that right oar. I
felt it smash him. There! we're on him now! Bail, you moke! No
stopping, or I throw you in! Stop that bailing and catch that duck
there! Got him? Hang on!"

It is a wood-chopper.

This yawl is like a wild animal. It springs upward, it rolls, it
flounders. It is like a wild bronco newly haltered. How can these
many heads hope to get upon so spirited a steed? See it leap backward
and on end! Now up, now sidewise, now vertically!

But the swimmers are also the sport of the waves. They, too, are
thrown far aloft. They, too, sink deeply.

"There, I hit that man again, I know I did! Don't you feel him? They
must be thick. Come this way, all you fellers! I can take ye!"

The boat is leaping high. These survivors are brave and good.

The wood-chopper, with his wooden life-preserver, is clumsy getting in.
He angers Corkey.

"Bail, you moke! Let the other fellows fish for the floaters!"