. In the now diminishing light from the distant fire the boys
could see that both were crowded with dark figures.

"Must be at least twenty-five aboard the two," commented Stevens.

"Yes," returned Spurling. "These fishermen carry big crews. Ahoy there!
What's the name of your vessel?"

"The _Clementine Briggs_, of Gloucester," replied a man in the bow of
the foremost dory. "Running in to Boothbay from Cashe's with a load of
herring. The gas exploded and set her on fire. We tried to put it out,
but it was no use. Just got clear with our lives and what we stood in."

"Anybody hurt?"

"Couple of men got their faces burnt, but not very bad. Lucky it was no
worse. But the old schooner's gone. Pretty tough on Captain Sykes, here,
for he owned most of her and didn't have much insurance. Fisherman's
luck!"

"Want a tow in to the island?"

"Sure!"

"Well, toss us your painter, and tell the other boat to make fast to
your stern."

In a very short time the _Barracouta_ was headed back for Tarpaulin,
with the two heavily loaded dories trailing behind her. Delayed by her
tow, she moved considerably slower than when coming out. A strange
silence hung over the two dories. For fishermen, their crews were
unusually quiet, sobered, evidently, by the catastrophe that had
overtaken their schooner.

"Wouldn't those men who were burnt like to come aboard the sloop?"
inquired Spurling. "Perhaps I can give 'em first aid."

"No," returned the spokesman. "One of 'em's Captain Sykes, here in this
dory with the handkerchief over his face. He isn't suffering much, but
his cheeks got scorched, so I'm talking for him. The other man is in the
next boat. The only thing for 'em to do is to grin and bear it; but just
now they're not grinning much, 'specially the captain."

Silence again. The sullen, red blaze on the distant vessel was dying
down against the horizon. The flames had stripped her to a skeleton. Her
hempen running rigging had been consumed; sails, gaffs, and booms lay
smoldering on her decks; above the hull only her masts and bowsprit were
outlined in fire against the blackness behind.

Lacking anything better to do, Jim began counting the men in the dories.
He made thirteen in each. Most of them sat like graven images, neither
speaking nor stirring. They had not even turned their heads to look at
the perishing schooner. He could not understand such indifference to the
fate of the craft that had been their home.

Sprowl's