Her side curtains were waving in ribands, the forward flag-pole held nothing but one tiny rag of blue bunting and the tender, torn from the chocks, was jammed between the stanchions ahead.
"But she's still whole," said Steve from between blue lips.

"And the storm's going down.

If she isn't sprung too much, and we could only get her off of there--" "Getting her off," said Joe with a pessimism born of hunger and cold and the gloom of the early morning, "will be about as easy as moving a house with a toothpick.

I dare say the sand's bedded around her two feet high." "I'm afraid so," Steve agreed.

"Well, let's have something to eat.