by the
memory of what he had heard before. Impatiently he rowed on.

After a while he stopped. Since he could not get track of any one, it
was foolish to continue the effort, for every stroke might take him
farther and farther out of hearing. On the other hand, if he were
headed in the right direction, another dory, trying to find the
schooner, might cross his path or come within earshot.

He was still not in the least worried by the situation. Men in much
worse ones had been rescued from them without thinking anything of
them.

But the rising wind and sea gave him something to think of. The waves
found it a very easy matter to climb aboard the heavily laden dory,
and occasionally he had to bail with the can in the bows provided for
the purpose.

An hour passed, and at the end of that time he found that he was
bailing almost constantly. There was only one thing to do under the
circumstances. The gaff lay under his hand. This is a piece of
broom-handle, to the end of which a stout, sharp hook is attached, and
the instrument is used in landing fish which are too heavy to swing
inboard on the slender fishing-line.

[Illustration: By this time the wind was a gale]

Code took the gaff and commenced to throw the fish over the side one
at a time. He hated the waste of splendid cod, but things had now got
to a pass where his own comfort and safety were at stake. Once the
fish were gone, with the cleanliness of long habit, he swabbed the
bottom and sides of the dory with an old rag and rinsed them with
water which he afterward bailed out.

The dory now rose high and dry on the waves; But Code found it
increasingly difficult to row because the water tended to "crab" his
oars and twist them suddenly out of his hands.

To keep his head to the wind he paddled slowly, listening for any
sound of a boat.

Another hour passed and darkness began to come down. The pearly gray
fog lost its color and became black, like smoke from a burning
oil-tank. He knew the sun was below the horizon. He wondered if any of
the other men had been caught. If none were gone but himself, he
reasoned, the schooner would have come in search of him.

So, from listening for the horn of a dory, he tried to catch the
hoarse voice of a patent fog-horn that would be grinding on the
forecastle head.

By this time the wind was a gale, and he knew it was driving him
astern, despite his rowing. The waves were no longer the little choppy
seas that the _La