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Away went the dory, paying out on the roding, the end of which was fastened to the disconnected cable, and when it had reached the steamer, a heaving-line was thrown, by which the roding was hauled aboard. Then the dory returned, while the steamer’s men hauled the cable to their stern. The bridle, two heavy ropes leading from the after-winch out the opposite quarter-chocks to the end of the cable, was quickly rigged by the steamer’s crew.

With a warning toot of the whistle, she went ahead, and the long tow-line swept the sea-tops, tautened, strained, and creaked on the windlass-bitts, and settled down to its work, while the schooner, dropping into her wake, was dragged westward at a ten-knot rate.

“This is bully,” said Elisha, gleefully. “Now I’ll chalk out the position an’ give her the course–magnetic, to make sure.”

He did so, and they held up in full view of the steamer’s bridge a large blackboard showing in six-inch letters the formula: “Lat. 41-20. Lon. 69-10. Mag. Co. W. half S.”

A toot of the whistle thanked them, and they watched the steamer, which had been heading a little to the south of this course, painfully swing her head up to it by hanging the schooner to the starboard leg of the bridle; but she did not stop at west-half-south, and when she pointed unmistakably as high as northwest, still dragging her tow by the starboard bridle, a light broke on them.

“She’s goin’ on her way with us,” said Elisha. “No, no; she can’t. She’s bound for London,” he added. “Halifax, mebbe.”

They waved their hats to port, and shouted in chorus at the steamer. They were answered by caps flourished to starboard from the bridge, and outstretched arms which pointed across the Atlantic Ocean, while the course changed slowly to north, then faster as wind and sea bore on the other bow, until the steamer steadied and remained at east-by-north.

“The rhumb course to the Channel,” groaned Elisha, wildly. “The nerve of it! An’ I’m supposed to give the longitude every noon. Why, dammit, boys, they’ll claim they rescued us, an’ like as not the English courts’ll allow them salvage on our little tub.”

“Let go the tow-line! Let ’em go to h—-l!” they shouted angrily, and some started forward, but were stopped by the cook. His eyes gleamed in his black face, and his voice was a little higher pitched than usual; otherwise he was the steadiest man there.

“We’ll hang right on to our bran-new cable, men,” he said. “It’s ours, not theirs. ‘Course we kin turn her adrif’ ag’in, an’ be wuss off, too; we can’t find de foremast now. But dat ain’t de bes’ way. John,” he called to the Englishman of the crew, “how many men do you’ country tramp steamers carry?”

John computed mentally, then muttered: “Two mates, six ash-cats,[1] two flunkies, two quartermasters, watchman, deck-hands–oh, ’bout sixteen or seventeen, Martin.”

[1] Ash-cats: engineers and firemen.

“Boys, le’ ‘s man de win’lass. We’ll heave in on our cable, an’ if we kin git close enough to climb aboard, we’ll reason it out wid dat English cappen, who can’t fin’ his way roun’ alone widout stealin’ little fishin’-schooners.”

“Right!” they yelled. “Man the windlass. We’ll show the lime-juice thief who’s doin’ this.”

“Amos,” said Martin to the ex-engineer, “you try an’ ‘member all you forgot ’bout ingines in case anything happens to de crew o’ dat steamer; an’, Elisha, you want to keep good track o’ where we go, so’s you kin find you’ way back.”

“I’ll get the chronometer on deck now. I can take sights alone.”

They took the cable to the windlass-barrel and began to heave. It was hard work,–equal to heaving an anchor against a strong head wind and ten-knot tideway,–and only half the crew could find room on the windlass-brakes; so, while the first shift labored and swore and encouraged one another, the rest watched the approach of a small tug towing a couple of scows, which seemed to have arisen out of the sea ahead of them. When the steamer was nearly upon her, she let go her tow-line and ranged up alongside, while a man leaning out of the pilot-house gesticulated to the steamer’s bridge and finally shook his fist. Then the tug dropped back abreast of the schooner. She was a dingy little boat, the biggest and brightest of her fittings being the name-board on her pilot-house, which spelled in large gilt letters the appellation J. C. Hawks.