The current fled onward, and on its breast the empty skiff danced as though the little waves were playfellows that had come to greet it and to carry it away to join their game.  They rocked it gently until it neared the lake; then they grew choppy, and the skiff bobbed and swayed until it was drawn out upon the bosom of the water.  It was calm there; but still the tide set seawards, carrying the skiff away and away—over the lake, hurrying, hurrying, until the great grey piers loomed ahead, with the grey waste of the sea dark between them. The roar of the breakers boomed, rising and falling. The lane of water between the piers was smooth: there were no waves; but under the surface were deep eddies, and the skiff spun and quivered over them, still drawn onward and outward towards the bar that leaped and thundered beyond the end of the piers.  It reached the bar, and the breakers took it and played with it, flinging it up and down.  Their curling crests tossed their spray into it; and still the little boat rode bravely, now in the hollow trough of a wave, now rising on a great curving wall of green water, and dashing forward with the tide out to sea.  So, by some strange chance it passed the bar into the long, smooth ocean swells, and drifted to the horizon.