The tide was
flowing in, and the dashing of the waves and roar of the surf made a
picture long to be remembered. After my swim I went home, and when
supper was finished three of us again went out to the beach. The wind
had increased to a perfect gale, and already the water was over the car
tracks. The Pagoda and Surf bath houses were surrounded, while numerous
small shacks along the shore had been washed away. Inch by inch, foot by
foot, the water advanced until it began to look serious, but no one
dreamed of the flood that was to follow.
We went home at eight-thirty, and at ten I dropped into the realms of
the sand man, lulled to sleep by the roar of the distant surf, and the
whistling and moaning of the high wind.
Jimmie Swanson was again my roommate and about five o'clock he woke me
up and said:
"Mr. Bates, if this wind keeps up the whole island will be under water
in a very few hours more."
"Nonsense, Jimmie," I replied, "there is no danger of that," and I
turned over to have another snooze, when I heard a peculiar _swash_,
_swash_, _swash_, against the side of the house.
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