straining sigh, the hull of the wreck parted amidships, both ends
sinking in the waters. A comber rushed in between, swelling and
hissing. The lumber deck-load rose in the air like a living thing.
The remaining fastenings holding it to the deck parted, and there was a
rending and grinding as it slued off into the sea, carrying with it the
main-mast, which crashed down and impaled the bar on which the wreck
rested.

The currents had carried the rowboat almost--quite, in fact--in front
of this terrible heaving mass of wood, one hundred feet long and
chained together to a height of ten feet--and only the mainmast, which
seemed to be serving as a sort of anchor, held it. Dan saw the danger,
and the shouts of those on the _Fledgling_ told him that they had seen
it too. The line leading from the boat to the tug was taut and
singing, evidence that the men were hauling upon it. But the pull of
the shoreward rushing waters was as great as their strength. The boat
made no movement out of her dangerous position. Dan was sculling like
mad, but his efforts, compared to the might of the sea, were puny. In
deep silence the mass of lumber worried at its unforeseen anchor. It
ripped free and, rolling and twisting in spineless abandon, bore down
upon the lifeboat with crushing momentum. On it came. They began to
pay out the line in order that the boat might keep ahead of it for a
few extra minutes. But Dan knew there could be no salvation in that.
He could see every foot of the advancing mass. He could see the
hundreds of planks flailing out in the air like arms; he could see the
thick water spurting through thousands of cracks and crevices; could
hear the gnashing of plank on plank. Nearer it came, as powerful, as
inexorable as the glacial drift. It rose before him in all its
crushing might.