k in the west!"

Not far above the horizon appeared a rift of clear blue sky, sown with
stars. Longer and wider it grew. Other rifts added themselves to it, and
in an unbelievably short time the entire heaven was swept clean. But
somehow the wind seemed to blow harder than before.

"How soon will it calm down?" asked Percy.

Jim shook his head.

"Can't say! May be a dry blow for two days longer."

He looked eastward.

"What's that coming? Steamer?"

Sure enough it was. Below the white light on the masthead appeared and
disappeared the red and green, obscured intermittently by the tossing
waves. Soon they could be seen all the time. Percy began to grow
excited.

"Suppose they'll pick us up?"

"Not a chance in a thousand. It's too rough for the lookout to spy our
boat, and, even if the steamer should come close, we could never make
her hear. She's either a tramp or an ocean liner from Halifax for
Portland."

On she plowed unswervingly and majestically, straight toward them.

"I'm afraid she's coming too near for comfort," said Jim, anxiously.
"She might run us down and never know it. Lots of fishermen have gone
that way. Ship that oar in the scull-hole. I'm going to haul in the
drug."

He lifted the trawl-tub aboard and sprang quickly aft.

"We'll know pretty quick whether she's likely to pass ahead or astern.
We can't count on being seen. We've got to look out for ourselves."

Freed from its floating anchor, the dory bobbed wildly. Wielding his oar
skilfully, Spurling held her bow to the north, ready to scull for the
last inch, or to let her drop back, as the approach of the steamer might
make it advisable.

Closer and closer came the big boat; her lights oscillated with
pendulum-like regularity as she rolled on the heavy seas.

"She'll pass astern," was Jim's verdict. "Won't do to drift in front of
her."

He sculled strongly, keeping an anxious eye on the threatening monster.
Percy's hair bristled.

"Harder, Jim!" he shouted. "She's going to run us down! Steamer ahoy!
Keep off! Keep off!"

The rushing foam smothered his cries. Meanwhile Spurling worked like a
steam-engine. Two lives hung on his oar-blade.

As the knife-like stem sheared past, close astern, the green eye
disappeared; the red glared menacingly down from the huge bulk looming
overhead. Then the lofty black side swept by, flashing an occasional ray
from a lighted port-hole. The screw gave them a sickening moment, but
they soon to