with one hand flung him through the air into the carpenter's arms.

Next came Shorty, his face streaming blood, one arm hanging useless,
his sea-boots stripped from him. Mr. Pike pitched him into the fife-
rail, and returned for the last man. It was Henry, the training-ship
boy. Him I had seen, unstruggling, motionless, show at the surface
like a drowned man and sink again as the flood surged aft and smashed
him against the cabin. Mr. Pike, shoulder-deep, twice beaten to his
knees and under by bursting seas, caught the lad, shouldered him, and
carried him away for'ard.

An hour later, in the cabin, I encountered Mr. Pike going into
breakfast. He had changed his clothes, and he had shaved! Now how
could one treat a hero such as he save as I treated him when I
remarked off-handedly that he must have had a lively watch?

"My," he answered, equally off-handedly, "I did get a prime soaking."

That was all. He had had no time to see me at the poop-rail. It was
merely the day's work, the ship's work, the MAN'S work--all capitals,
if you please, in MAN. I was the only one aft who knew, and I knew
because I had chanced to see. Had I not been on the poop at that
early hour no one aft ever would have known those gray, storm-morning
deeds of his.

"Anybody hurt?" I asked.

"Oh, some of the men got wet. But no bones broke. Henry'll be laid
off for a day. He got turned over in a sea and bashed his head. And
Shorty's got a wrenched shoulder, I think.--But, say, we got Davis