"Twenty-five dollars for the lot. They're worth it,--specially if we lose Ham's boat."

Dab's philosophy was a little out of gear; but a perfect rattle of questions and answers followed in French, and, somewhat to Frank Harley's astonishment, the bargain was promptly concluded. Fresh fish, just out of the water, were a particularly pleasant arrival to people who had been ten days out at sea.

How were they to get them on board? Nothing easier, since the little "Swallow" could run along so nicely under the stern of the great steamer, after a line was thrown her; and a large basket was swung out at the end of a long, slender spar, with a pulley to lower and raise it.

There was fun in the loading of that basket: but even the boys from Long Island were astonished at the number and size of the fine, freshly-caught blue-fish, to which they were treating the hungry pa.s.sengers of the "Prudhomme;" and the basket had to go and come again and again.

The steamer's steward, on his part, avowed that he had never before met so honest a lot of Yankee fishermen. Perhaps not; for high prices and short weight are apt to go together, where "luxuries" are selling. The pay itself was handed out in the same basket which went for the fish, and then "The Swallow" was again cast loose.

The wind was not nearly so high as it had been, and the sea had for some time been going down.

Twenty minutes later Frank Harley heard,--for he understood French very well,--

"Hullo, the boat! What are you following us for?"

"Oh! we won't run you down. Don't be alarmed. We've lost our way out here, and we're going to follow you in. Hope you know where you are."

There was a cackle of surprise and laughter among the steamer's officers, in which Frank and some of the pa.s.sengers joined; and the saucy little "fishing-boat" came steadily on in the wake of her gigantic tide.

"This is grand for us," remarked Dab Kinzer to Ford, as he kept his eyes on the after-lantern of the "Prudhomme." "They pay all our pilot-fees."

"But they're going to New York."

"So are we, if to-morrow doesn't come out clear, and with a good wind to go home by."

"It's better than crossing the Atlantic in the dark, anyhow. But what a steep price we got for those fish!"

"They're always ready to pay well for such things at the end of a voyage," said Dab. "I expected, though, they'd try and beat us down a peg. They generally do. We didn't get much more than the fair market price, after all, only we got rid of our whole catch at one sale."

That was a good deal better than fishermen are apt to do.

Hour followed hour; and "The Swallow" followed the steamer, and the fog followed them both so closely, that sometimes even d.i.c.k Lee's keen eyes could with difficulty make out the "Prudhomme's" light. And now Ford Foster ventured to take a bit of a nap, so sure did he feel that all the danger was over, and that Captain Kinzer was equal to what d.i.c.k Lee called the "nagivation" of that yacht How long he had slept, he could not have guessed but he was awakened by a great cry from out the mist beyond them, and by the loud exclamation of Captain Kinzer, still at the tiller,--

"I believe she's run ash.o.r.e!"

It was a loud cry, indeed, and there was good reason for it. Well was it for all on board the great steamer, that she was running no faster at the time and that there was no hurricane of a gale to make things worse for her. Pilot and captain had both together missed their reckoning,--neither of them could ever afterward tell how,--and there they were, stuck fast in the sand, with the noise of breakers ahead of them, and the dense fog all around.

Frank Harley peered anxiously over the rail again but he could not have complained that he was "wrecked in sight of sh.o.r.e," for the steamer was any thing but a wreck as yet, and there was no sh.o.r.e in sight.

"It's an hour to sunrise," said Dab to Ford, after the latter had managed to comprehend the situation. "We may as well run farther in, and see what we can see."

It must have been aggravating to the people on board the steamer, to see that little c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l of a yacht dancing safely along over the shoal on which their "leviathan" had struck, and to hear Ford Foster sing out, "If we'd known you meant to run in here, we'd have followed some other pilot."

"They're in no danger at all," said Dab, "If their own boats don't take 'em all ash.o.r.e, the coast-wreckers will."

"The government life-savers, I s'pose you mean."

"Yes: they're all alongsh.o.r.e, here, everywhere. Hark! there goes the distress-gun. Bang away! It sounds a good deal more mad than scared."

So it did; and so they were,--captain, pilot, pa.s.sengers, and all.

"Captain Kinzer" found that he could safely run in for a couple of hundred yards or so; but there were signs of surf beyond, and he had no anchor to hold on by. His only course was to tack back and forth as carefully as possible, and wait for daylight,--as the French sailors were doing, with what patience they could command.

In less than half an hour, however, a pair of long, graceful, buoyant-looking life-boats, manned each with an officer and eight rowers, came shooting through the mist, in response to the repeated summons of the steamer's cannon.

"It's all right, now," said Dab. "I knew they wouldn't be long in coming. Let's find out where we are."

That was easy enough. The steamer had gone ash.o.r.e on a sand-bar, a quarter of a mile from the beach, and a short distance from Seabright on the New Jersey coast; and there was no probability of any worse harm coming to her than the delay in her voyage, and the cost of pulling her out from the sandy bed into which she had so blindly thrust herself. The pa.s.sengers would, most likely, be taken ash.o.r.e with their baggage, and sent on to the city overland.

"In fact," said Ford Foster, "a sand-bar isn't as bad for a steamer as a pig is for a locomotive."

"The train you were wrecked in," said Dab, "was running fast. Perhaps the pig was. Now, the sandbar was standing still, and the steamer was going slow. My! What a crash there'd have been if she'd been running ten or twelve knots an hour, with a heavy sea on!"

By daylight there were plenty of other craft around, including yachts and sail-boats from Long Branch, and "all along sh.o.r.e;" and the Long Island boys treated the occupants of these as if they had sent for them, and were glad to see them.

"Seems to me you're inclined to be a little inquisitive, Dab," said Ford, as his friend peered sharply into and around one craft after another; but just then Dabney sang out,--

"Hullo, Jersey, what are you doing with two grapnels? Is that boat of yours balky?"

"Mind yer eye, youngster. They're both mine, I reckon."

"You might sell me one cheap," continued Dab, "considering how you got 'em. Give you ten cents for the big one."

Ford thought he understood the matter now, and he said nothing; but the "Jersey wrecker" had "picked up" both of those anchors, one time and another, and had no sort of objection to "talking trade."

"Ten cents! Let you have it for fifty dollars."

"Is it gold, or only silver gilt?"

"Pure gold, my boy; but, seem' it's you, I'll let you have it for ten dollars."

"Take your pay in clams?"

"Oh, hush! I hain't no time to gabble. Mebbe I'll git a job here, 'round this yer wreck. If you reelly want that there grapn'I, wot'll you gimme?"

"Five dollars, gold, take it or leave it," said Dab, pulling out a coin from the money he had received for his bluefish.

In three minutes more "The Swallow" was furnished with a much larger and better anchor than the one she had lost the day before; and d.i.c.k Lee exclaimed, "It jes' takes Cap'n Kinzer!"

For some minutes before this, as the light grew clearer and the fog lifted a little, Frank Harley had been watching them from the rail of the "Prudhomme," and wondering if all the fisher-boys in America dressed as well as these two.

"Hullo, you!" was the greeting which now came to his ears. "Go ash.o.r.e in my boat?"

"Not till I've eaten some of your fish for breakfast," said Frank.

"What's your name?"

"Captain Dabney Kinzer, of 'most anywhere on Long Island. What's yours?"

"Frank Harley of Rangoon."