t's our only chance."

Poor Ford Foster's heart sank within him, as he listened, and as he
gazed ahead upon the long white line of foaming surf and tossing
breakers. He saw, however, a look of heroic resolution rising in
"Captain Kinzer's" face, and it gave him courage to turn his eyes again
towards the surf.

"The Swallow" was now once more moving in a way to justify her name;
and, although Ford was no sailor, he could see that her only chance to
penetrate that perilous barrier of broken water was to "take it nose
on," as Dick Lee expressed it.

That was clearly the thing Dab Kinzer intended to do. There were places
of comparative smoothness, here and there, in the tossing and plunging
line; but they were bad enough, at the best, and they would have been a
good deal worse but for that stiff breeze blowing off shore.

"Now for it!" shouted Dab, as "The Swallow" bounded on.

"Dar dey come!" said Dick.

Ford thought of his mother, and sister, and father; but he had not a
word to say, and hardly felt like breathing.

Bows foremost, full sail, rising like a cork on the long, strong
billows, which would have rolled her over and over if she had not been
handled so skilfully as she really was; once or twice pitching
dangerously in short, chopping seas, and shipping water enough to wet
her brave young mariners to the skin, and call for vigorous baling
afterwards,--"The Swallow" battled gallantly with her danger for a few
moments; and then Dab Kinzer swung his hat, and shouted,--

"Hurrah, boys! We're out at sea!"

"Dat's so," said Dick.

"So it is," remarked Ford, a little gloomily; "but how on earth will we
ever get ashore again? We can't go back through that surf."

"Well," replied Dab, "if it doesn't come on to blow too hard, we'll run
right on down the coast. If the wind lulled, or whopped around a little,
we'd find our way in, easy enough, long before night. We might have a
tough time beating home across the bay, even if we were inside the bar,
now. Anyhow, we're safe enough out here."

Ford could hardly feel that very strongly, but he was determined not to
let Dab see it; and he made an effort at the calmness of a Mohawk, as he
said, "How about fishing?"

"Guess we won't bother 'em much, but you might go for a bluefish.
Sometimes they have great luck with them, right along here."

CHAPTER XI.

SPLENDID FISHING, AND A BIG FOG.

There is no telling how many anxious people there may have been in