"Lucky I happened to see you," Bailey went on. "I went down to the
train to get my paper. One of the brakemen throws me one off each
trip. It's all the news I get. I didn't expect any one down. This
used to be quite a place years ago, but it's petered out. But come
on, get your wet things off, and I'll see what I can do for you."

Larry was glad enough to do so. Fortunately he had brought some
extra underwear in his valise, and, after a good rub-down before the
stove, he donned the garments, and then put on a pair of the
fisherman's trousers and an old coat, until his own clothes could
dry.

As he sat before the stove, warm and comfortable after the
drenching, and safe from the storm, which was now raging with
increased fury outside, Larry heard the deep booming of the signal
guns coming to him from across the angry sea.

"Are they in any danger?" he asked of Bailey, as the fisherman
prepared to get a meal.

"Danger? There's always danger on the sea, my boy. I wouldn't want
to be on that vessel, and I've been in some pretty tight places and
gotten out again. She went ashore in a fog early this morning, but
it will be a good while before she gets off. Seven Mile Beach hates
to let go of a thing once it gets a hold."

It was getting dusk, and what little light of the fading day was
left was obscured by the masses of storm clouds. The fisherman's hut
was on the beach, not far from the high-water mark, and the booming
of the surf on the shore came as a sort of melancholy accompaniment