men on the cliff.

Below, the skipper was doing his utmost to still the tumult and drag the
men to safety. They were the men of his harbor--a part of his equipment
in life--and therefore he worked like a hero to save them from
themselves and one another. His young brother was safe on the cliff; so
his fine efforts were not inspired by any grander emotion than that felt
by the shopkeeper who fights fire in the protection of his uninsured
stock-in-trade. There were men below whom he needed, but none whom he
loved even with the ordinary affection of man for humanity. The skipper
yanked the men to the steps as fast as he could get hold of them,
dragged them up to the level of the deck, and left them sprawled. All
were breathless; some were cut and bruised; Nick Leary's left cheek had
been laid open from eye to jaw in some way. The shouting and yelling
were now over, and several husky fellows, ashamed of the recent panic,
helped the skipper at his work. When the task of rescue was at last
finished, the flooded cabin had given up three corpses besides that of
the woman--four corpses and a dozen wounded men.

The bodies of the wreckers were hauled up to the top of the cliff, amid
prayers, curses and groans of distress. The fellows on shore demanded to
know who had killed them--and why? Knives were drawn. The brother of one
of the dead men swore that he was ready and eager to cut the heart out
of the murderer. The lads on the wreck caught something of all this; but
it did not cool their desire to get ashore. Those who had the use of
their limbs swarmed up the foremast and crossed over to the cliff. The
first to step ashore was in grave danger for a half-minute; but he
managed to throw some light on the thing that had taken place in the
flooded cabin. Others landed, the whole story was told and knives were
returned to their sheaths. The skipper, the seriously injured and the