St Nicholas [serial] . arning blast of the siren, asthe great prow advanced. Ghostlike, silent, ter-rible, the steamer passed where, but a momentbefore, the little skiff had paused, and the fogclosed in behind it. No one aboard saw the littleboat so nearly run down, nor the white face ofthe boy who had so narrowly dodged death. For a moment after his escape, Stuartsstrength failed so that he could scarcely wieldthe oar. A sense of his own insignificancecrushed him. What was his puny strength pittedagainst the great forces of nature and of man,which seemed in conspiracy against him? Then reason
St Nicholas [serial] . arning blast of the siren, asthe great prow advanced. Ghostlike, silent, ter-rible, the steamer passed where, but a momentbefore, the little skiff had paused, and the fogclosed in behind it. No one aboard saw the littleboat so nearly run down, nor the white face ofthe boy who had so narrowly dodged death. For a moment after his escape, Stuartsstrength failed so that he could scarcely wieldthe oar. A sense of his own insignificancecrushed him. What was his puny strength pittedagainst the great forces of nature and of man,which seemed in conspiracy against him? Then reason regained its equilibrium. Hisdetermination to keep his promise to his unclereasserted itself. His brain cleared, his armwas strong. Again he turned the boat andheaded it once more for the island. The steamer in passing had rendered Stuartan important service. It had left a well-definedwake. He knew the steamer, which regularlypassed the lighthouse, and was familiar with itscourse. He was now able to accurately lay his. GHOSTLIKE, SILENT, TERRIBLE, THE STEAMER PASSED. 487 488 THE POCKET COMPASS own course for his uncles light by the direc-tion from which the steamer had come. Thisrevived his courage in no small degree. He proceeded, if possible, with more cautionthan before, so sharpened had been his facultiesby the recent danger. He sculled on and short winter afternoon drew to its close, andevening fell. Stuart had no indication of thisbeyond the darkening of the gray fog about exertion of sculling began to seem intoler-able, yet he dared not stop, lest he lose his course. Then, faint and far away, he heard a familiarnote. Pie listened intently, and made out twoblasts in close sequence. Risking a deflectionfrom his course, he crouched in the bottom of theboat, shielding in the hollow of his hand a lightedmatch while he timed the sounds by his three-second blast, a silent interval of twenty-seven seconds, another three-second blast, andhe knew that the s
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