swallowed the dingey, and almost simultaneously the men tumbled into the
sea. A piece of lifebelt had lain in the bottom of the boat, and as the
correspondent went overboard he held this to his chest with his left
hand.

The January water was icy, and he reflected immediately that it was
colder than he had expected to find it on the coast of Florida. This
appeared to his dazed mind as a fact important enough to be noted at the
time. The coldness of the water was sad; it was tragic. This fact was
somehow so mixed and confused with his opinion of his own situation that
it seemed almost a proper reason for tears. The water was cold.

When he came to the surface he was conscious of little but the noisy
water. Afterward he saw his companions in the sea. The oiler was ahead
in the race. He was swimming strongly and rapidly. Off to the
correspondent's left, the cook's great white and corked back bulged out
of the water, and in the rear the captain was hanging with his one good
hand to the keel of the overturned dingey.

There is a certain immovable quality to a shore, and the correspondent
wondered at it amid the confusion of the sea.

It seemed also very attractive, but the correspondent knew that it was a
long journey, and he paddled leisurely. The piece of life-preserver lay
under him, and sometimes he whirled down the incline of a wave as if he
were on a handsled.

But finally he arrived at a place in the sea where travel was beset
with difficulty. He did not pause swimming to inquire what manner of
current had caught him, but there his progress ceased. The shore was set