the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered, monstrous and black.

With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller. "We'll make it, Andy," he said quietly. "We'll make it yet if the Jennie holds out—" Suddenly he stood upright, his hand on the tiller, his eyes glued fast.

"Luff her," he cried. "She's gone—Luff her, I tell you!" He sprang back, jamming the tiller from him. "Let her out, Andy, every inch!"

The canvas flew wide to the wind. The great boat responded to its touch. She rose like a bird and dipped, in sweeping sidewise flight, to the race.

Across the water something bobbed—black, uncertain.

"Look sharp, Andy," said Uncle William.

Andrew peered with blinking eyes across the waste. The spirit of the chase was on him. His indifference had washed from him, like a husk, in that center of terror. His eyes leaped to the mass and glowed on it. "Yep," he said solemnly, "he's held on—he's there!"

"Keep your eye on her, Andy. Don't lose her." Uncle William's big arms strained to the wind, forcing the great bird in her course. Nearer she came and nearer, circling with white wings that opened and closed silently, softly. Close to the bobbing boat she grazed, hung poised a moment, and swept away with swift stroke.

The artist had swung through the air at the end of a huge arm. As he looked up from the bottom of the boat where he lay, the old man's head, round and smooth, like a boulder, stood out against the black above him. It grew and expanded and filled the horizon—thick and nebulous and dizzy.

"Roll him over, Andy," said Uncle William, "roll him over. He's shipped too much."