Planks, scaffolding--everything floatable-had gone, and strewed the rock with matchwood; and--a marvel to see-one of his two heaviest winches had been lifted from inside, hurled clean over the wall, and lay collapsed in the wreckage of its cast-iron frame.

But, so far as he could see, the dovetailed masonry stood intact.

A voice hailed him.
"What a night! What a night!" It was old Pezzack, aloft on the gallery of the light-house in his yellow oilers, already polishing the lantern panes.
Taffy's workmen came straggling and gathered about him.
They discussed the damage together but without addressing Taffy; until a little pock-marked fellow, the wag of the gang, nudged a mate slily and said aloud-- "By God, Bill, we _can_ build a bit--you and me and the boss!" All the men laughed; and Taffy laughed too, blushing.

Yes; this had been in his mind.

He had measured his work against the sea in its fury, and the sea had not beaten him.
A cry broke in upon their laughter.