A minute later the entire crew, some pulling, some steering, dragged out the beach wagon. A light framework supported by two broad-tired wheels carried all the apparatus for rescue work from the beach. Each member of the crew had his appointed place and definite duties, according to printed instructions which each had learned by heart, and when the command was given every man jumped to his place as a well-trained man-of-war's-man takes his position at his gun.

Over hummocks of sand and wreckage, across little inlets made by the waves, in the face of blinding sleet and staggering wind, the life-savers dragged the beach wagon on the run.

Through the mist and shrouding white of the storm the outlines of the stranded vessel could just be distinguished.

Bringing the wagon to the nearest point, the crew unloaded their appliances.

Two men then unloaded a sand-anchor--an immense cross--and immediately set to work with shovels to dig a hole in the sand and bury it. While this was being done two others were busy placing a bronze cannon (two and one-half-inch bore) in position; another got out boxes containing small rope wound criss-cross fashion on wooden pins set upright in the bottom. The pins merely held the rope in its coils until ready for use, when board and pegs were removed. The free end of the line was attached to a ring in the end of the long projectile which the captain carried, together with a box of ammunition slung over his shoulders. The cylindrical projectile was fourteen and one-half inches long and weighed seventeen pounds. All these operations were carried on at once and with utmost speed in spite of the great difficulties and the darkness.

While the surf boomed and the wind roared, the captain sighted the gun--aided by Nos. 1 and 2 of the crew--aiming for the outstretched arms of the yards of the wrecked vessel. With the wind blowing at an almost hurricane rate, it was a difficult shot, but long practice under all kinds of difficulties had taught the captain just how to aim. As he pulled the lanyard, the little bronze cannon spit out fire viciously, and the long projectile, to which had been attached the end of the coiled line, sailed off on its errand of mercy. With a whir the line spun out of the box coil after coil, while the crew peered out over the breaking seas to see if the keeper's aim was true. At last the line stopped uncoiling and the life-savers knew that the shot had landed somewhere. For a time nothing happened, the slender rope reached out into the boiling waves, but no answering tugs conveyed messages to the waiting surfmen from the wrecked seamen.

At length the line began to slip through the fingers of the keeper who held it and moved seaward, so those on sh.o.r.e knew that the rope had been found and its use understood. The line carried out by the projectile served merely to drag out a heavy rope on which was run a sort of trolley carrying a breeches-buoy or sling.

The men on the wreck understood the use of the apparatus, or read the instructions printed in several languages with which the heavy rope was tagged. They made the end of the strong line fast to the mast well above the reach of the hungry seas, and the surfmen secured their end to the deeply buried sand-anchor, an inverted V-shaped crotch placed under the rope holding it above the water on the sh.o.r.e end. When this had been done, as much of the slack was taken up as possible, and the wreck was connected with the beach with a kind of suspension bridge.

All this occupied much time, for the hands of the sailors were numb with cold, the ropes stiff with ice, while the wild and angry wind s.n.a.t.c.hed at the tackle and tore at the clinging figures.

In a trice the willing arms on sh.o.r.e hauled out the buoy by means of an endless line reaching out to the wreck and back to sh.o.r.e. Then with a joy that comes only to those who are saving a fellow-creature from death, the life-savers saw a man climb into the stout canvas breeches of the hanging buoy, and felt the tug on the whip-line that told them that the rescue had begun. With a will they pulled on the line, and the buoy, carrying its precious burden, rolled along the hawser, swinging in the wind, and now and then dipping the half-frozen man in the crests of the waves. It seemed a perilous journey, but as long as the wreck held together and the mast remained firmly upright the pa.s.sengers on this improvised aerial railway were safe.

One after the other the crew were taken ash.o.r.e in this way, the life-savers hauling the breeches-buoy forward and back, working like madmen to complete their work before the wreck should break up. None too soon the last man was landed, for he had hardly been dragged ash.o.r.e when the st.u.r.dy mast, being able to stand the buffeting of the waves no longer, toppled over and floated ash.o.r.e.

The life-savers' work is not over when the crew of a vessel is saved, for the apparatus must be packed on the beach wagon and returned to the station, while the shipwrecked crew is provided with dry clothing, fed, and cared for. The patrol continues on his beat throughout the night without regard to the hardships that have already been undergone.

The success of the surfmen in saving lives depends not only on their courage and strength, supplemented by continuous training which has been proved time and again, but the wonderful record of the life-saving service is due as well to the efficient appliances that make the work of the men effective.

Besides the apparatus already described, each station is provided with a kind of boat-car which has a capacity for six or seven persons, and is built so that its pa.s.sengers are entirely enclosed, the hatch by which they enter being clamped down from the inside. When there are a great many people to be saved, this car is used in place of the breeches-buoy.

It is hung on the hawser by rings at either end and pulled back and forth by the whip-line; or, if the masts of the vessel are carried away and there is nothing to which the heavy rope can be attached so that it will stretch clear above the wave-crests, in such an emergency the life-car floats directly on the water, and the whip-line is used to pull it to the sh.o.r.e with wrecked pa.s.sengers and back to the wreck for more.

Everything that would help to save life under any condition is provided, and a number of appliances are duplicated in case one or more should be lost or damaged at a critical time. Signal flags are supplied, and the surfmen are taught their use as a means of communicating with people aboard a vessel in distress. Telephones connect the stations, so that in case of any special difficulty two or even three crews may be combined.

When wireless telegraphy comes into general use aboard ship the stations will doubtless be equipped with this apparatus also, so that ships may be warned of danger.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LIFE-SAVERS AT WORK The two men in the center are burying the sand-anchor; of the two at the right, one is ready with the crotch support the hawser and the other carries the breeches-buoy; the other three men are hauling the line which has already been shot over the wrecked vessel.]

The 10,000 miles of the United States ocean, gulf, and Great Lakes coasts, exclusive of Alaska and the island possessions, are guarded by 265 stations and houses of refuge at this writing, and new ones are added every year. Practically all of this immense coast-line is patrolled or watched over during eight or nine stormy months, and those that "go down to the sea in ships" may be sure of a helping hand in time of trouble.

The dangerous coasts are more thickly studded with stations, and the sections that are comparatively free from life-endangering reefs are provided with refuge houses where supplies are stored and where wrecked survivors may find shelter.

The Atlantic coast, being the most dangerous to shipping, is guarded by more than 175 stations; the Great Lakes require fifty or more to care for the survivors of the vessels that are yearly wrecked on their harbourless sh.o.r.es. For the Gulf of Mexico eight are considered sufficient, and the long Pacific coast also requires but eight.

The Life-Saving Service, formerly under the Treasury Department, now an important part of the Department of Commerce and Labour, was organised by Sumner I. Kimball, who was put at its head in 1871, and the great success and glory it has won is largely due to his energy and efficient enthusiasm.

The Life-Saving Service publishes a report of work accomplished through the year. It is a dry recital of facts and figures, but if the reader has a little imagination he can see the record of great deeds of heroism and self-sacrifice written between the lines.

As vessels labour through the wintry seas along our coasts, and the on-sh.o.r.e winds roar through the rigging, while the fog, mist or snow hangs like a curtain all around, it is surely a comfort to those at sea to know that all along the dangerous coast men specially trained, and equipped with the most efficient apparatus known, are always ready to stretch out a helping hand.

MOVING PICTURES

Some Strange Subjects and How They Were Taken

The grandstand of the Sheepshead Bay race-track, one spring afternoon, was packed solidly with people, and the broad, terra-cotta-coloured track was fenced in with a human wall near the judges' stand. The famous Suburban was to be run, and people flocked from every direction to see one of the greatest horse-races of the year. While the band played gaily, and the shrill cries of programme venders punctuated the hum of the voices of the mult.i.tude, and while the stable boys walked their aristocratic charges, shrouded in blankets, exercising them sedately--in the midst of all this movement, hubbub, and excitement a man a little to one side, apparently unconscious of all the uproar, was busy with a big box set up on a portable framework six or seven feet above the ground.

The man was a new kind of photographer, and his big box was a camera with which he purposed to take a series of pictures of the race. Above the box, which was about two and a half feet square, was an electric motor from which ran a belt connecting with the inner mechanism; from the front of the box protruded the lens, its gla.s.sy eye so turned as to get a full sweep of the track; nearby on the ground were piled the storage batteries which were used to supply the current for the motor.

As the time for the race drew near the excitement increased, figures darted here, there and everywhere, the bobbing, brightly coloured hats of the women in the great slanting field of the grandstand suggesting bunches of flowers agitated by the breeze. Then the horses paraded in a thoroughbred fashion, as if they appreciated their lengthy pedigrees and understood their importance.

At last the splendid animals were lined up across the track, their small jockeys in their brilliantly coloured jackets hunched up like monkeys on their backs. Then the enormous crowd was quiet, the band was still, even the noisy programme venders ceased calling their wares, and the photographer stood quietly beside his camera, the motor humming, his hand on the switch that starts the internal machinery. Suddenly the starter dropped his arm, the barring gate flew up, and the horses sprang forward. "They're off!" came from a thousand throats in unison. The band struck up a lively air, and the vast a.s.semblage watched with excited eyes the flying horses. As the horses swept on round the turn and down the back stretch the people seemed to be drawn from their seats, and by the time the racers made the turn leading into the home-stretch almost every one was standing and the roar of yelling voices was deafening.

All this time the photographer kept his eyes on his machine, which was rattling like a rapidly beaten drum, the cyclopean eye of the camera making impressions on a sensitised film-ribbon at the rate of forty a second, and every movement of the flying legs of the urging jockeys, even the puffs of dust that rose at the falling of each iron-shod hoof, was recorded for all time by the eye of the camera.

The horses entered the home-stretch and in a terrific burst of speed flashed by the throngs of yelling people and under the wire, a mere blur of shining bodies, brilliant colours of the jockeys' blouses, and yellow dust. The Suburban was over, and the great crowd that had come miles to see a race that lasted but a little more than two minutes (a grand struggle of giants, however), sank back into their seats or relaxed their straining gaze in a way that said plainer than words could say it, "It is over."

It was 4:45 in the afternoon. The photographer was all activity. The minute the race was over the motor above the great camera was stopped and the box was opened. From its dark interior another box about six inches square and two inches deep was taken: this box contained the record of the race, on a narrow strip of film two hundred and fifty feet long, the latent image of thousands of separate pictures.

Then began another race against time, for it was necessary to take that long ribbon across the city of Brooklyn, over the Bridge, across New York, over the North River by ferry to Hoboken on the Jersey side, develop, fix, and dry the two-hundred-and-fifty-foot-long film-negative, make a positive or reversed print on another two-hundred-and-fifty-foot film, carry it through the same photographic process, and show the spirited scene on the stereopticon screen of a metropolitan theatre the same evening.

That evening a great audience in the dark interior of a New York theatre sat watching a white sheet stretched across the stage; suddenly its white expanse grew dark, and against the background appeared "The Suburban, run this afternoon at 4:45 at Sheepshead Bay track; won by Alcedo, in 2 minutes 5 3-5 seconds."

[Ill.u.s.tration: BIOGRAPH PICTURE OF A MILITARY HAZING SCENE These pictures are not consecutive. The difference between those that follow each other is so slight as to be almost imperceptible because of the rapidity with which they are taken. These pictures were probably taken at the rate of thirty to forty per second.]

Then appeared on the screen the picture of the scene that the thousands had travelled far to see that same afternoon. There were the wide, smooth track, the tower-like judges' stand, the oval turf of the inner field, and as the audience looked the starter moved his arm, and the rank of horses, life-size and quivering with excitement, shot forth.

From beginning to end the great struggle was shown to the people seated comfortably in the city playhouse, several miles from the track where the race was run, just two hours and fifteen minutes after the winning horse dashed past the judges' stand. Every detail was reproduced; every movement of horses and jockeys, even the clouds of dust that rose from the hoof-beats, appeared clearly on the screen. And the audience rose gradually to their feet, straining forward to catch every movement, thrilled with excitement as were the mighty crowds at the actual race.

To produce the effect that made the people in the theatre forget their surroundings and feel as if they were actually overlooking the race-track itself, about five thousand separate photographs were shown.

It was discovered long ago that if a series of pictures, each of which showed a difference in the position of the legs of a man running, for instance, was pa.s.sed quickly before the eye so that the s.p.a.ce between the pictures would be screened, the figure would apparently move. The eyes retain the image they see for a fraction of a second, and if a new image carrying the movement a little farther along is presented in the same place, the eyes are deceived so that the object apparently actually moves. An ingenious toy called the zoltrope, which was based on this optical illusion, was made long before Edison invented the vitascope, Herman Caster the biograph and mutoscope, or the Lumiere brothers in France devised the cinematograph. All these different moving-picture machines work on the same principle, differing only in their mechanism.

A moving-picture machine is really a rapid-fire repeating camera provided with a lens allowing of a very quick exposure. Internal mechanism, operated by a hand-crank or electric motor, moves the unexposed film into position behind the lens and also opens and closes the shutter at just the proper moment. The same machinery feeds down a fresh section of the ribbon-like film into position and coils the exposed portion in a dark box, just as the film of a kodak is rolled off one spool and, after exposure, is wound up on another. The film used in the biograph when taking the Suburban was two and three-fourth inches wide and several hundred feet long; about forty exposures were made per second, and for each exposure the film had to come to a dead stop before the lens and then the shutter was opened, the light admitted for about one three-hundredth of a second, the shutter closed, and a new section of film moved into place, while the exposed portion was wound upon a spool in a light-tight box. The long, flexible film is perforated along both edges, and these perforations fit over toothed wheels which guide it down to the lens; the holes in the celluloid strip are also used by the feeding mechanism. In order that the interval between the pictures shall always be the same, the film must be held firmly in each position in turn; the perforations and toothed mechanism accomplish this perfectly.

In taking the picture of the Suburban race almost five thousand separate negatives (all on one strip of film, however) were made during the two minutes five and three-fifths seconds the race was being run.

Each negative was perfectly clear, and each was different, though if one negative was compared to its neighbour scarcely any variance would be noted.

After the film has been exposed, the light-tight box containing it is taken out of the camera and taken to a gigantic dark-room, where it is wound on a great reel and developed, just as the image on a kodak film is brought out. The reel is hung by its axle over a great trough containing gallons of developer, so that the film wound upon it is submerged; and as the reel is revolved all of the sensitised surface is exposed to the action of the chemicals and gradually the latent pictures are developed. After the development has gone far enough, the reel, still carrying the film, is dipped in clean water and washed, and then a dip in a similar bath of clearing-and-fixing solution makes the negatives permanent--followed by a final washing in clean water. It is simply developing on a grand scale, thousands of separate pictures on hundreds of feet of film being developed at once.

A negative, however, is of no use unless a positive or print of some kind is made from it. If shown through a stereopticon, for instance, a negative would make all the shadows on the screen appear lights, and vice versa. A positive, therefore, is made by running a fresh film, with the negative, through a machine very much like the moving-picture camera. The unexposed surface is behind that of the negative, and at the proper intervals the shutter is opened and the admitted light prints the image of the negative on the unexposed film, just as a lantern slide is made, in fact, or a print on sensitised paper. The positives are made by this machine at the rate of a score or so in a second. Of course, the positive is developed in the same manner as the negative.

Therefore, in order to show the people in the theatre the Suburban, five hundred feet of film was exposed, developed, fixed, and dried, and nearly ten thousand separate and complete pictures were produced, in the s.p.a.ce of two hours and fifteen minutes, including the time occupied in taking the films to and from the track, factory, and theatre.

Originally, successive pictures of moving objects were taken for scientific purposes. A French scientist who was studying aerial navigation set up a number of cameras and took successive pictures of a bird's flight. Doctor Muybridge, of Philadelphia, photographed trotting horses with a camera of his own invention that made exposures in rapid succession, in order to learn the different positions of the legs of animals while in rapid motion.

A Frenchman also--M. Mach--photographed a plant of rapid growth twice a day from exactly the same position for fifty consecutive days. When the pictures were thrown on the screen in rapid order the plant seemed to grow visibly.

The moving pictures provide a most attractive entertainment, and it was this feature of the idea, undoubtedly, that furnished the incentive to inventors. The public is always willing to pay well for a good amus.e.m.e.nt.

The makers of the moving-picture films have photographic studios suitably lighted and fitted with all the necessary stage accessories (scenery, properties, etc.) where the little comedies shown on the screens of the theatres are acted for the benefit of the rapid-fire camera and its operators, who are often the only spectators. One of these studios in the heart of the city of New York is so brilliantly lighted by electricity that pictures may be taken at full speed, thirty to forty-five per second, at any time of day or night. Another company has an open-air gallery large enough for whole troops of cavalry to maneuver before the camera, or where the various evolutions of a working fire department may be photographed.

Of course, when the pictures are taken in a studio or place prepared for the work the photographic part is easy--the camera man sets up his machine and turns the crank while the performers do the rest. But some extra-ordinary pictures have been taken when the photographer had to seek his scene and work his machine under trying and even dangerous circ.u.mstances.