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On deck they met a man.

He held a lantern to their faces. “Got any chewin’ tewbacca?” he inquired.

“No,” said the tall man, “we ain’t.”

The man had a bronze face and solitary whiskers. Peculiar lines about his mouth were shaped into an eternal smile of derision. His feet were bare, and clung handily to crevices.

Fearful trousers were supported by a piece of suspender that went up the wrong side of his chest and came down the right side of his back, dividing him into triangles.

“Ezekiel P. Sanford, capt’in, schooner ‘Mary Jones,’ of N’yack, N. Y., genelmen,” he said.

“Ah!” said the tall man, “delighted, I’m sure.”

There were a few moments of silence. The giants were hovering in the gloom and staring.

Suddenly astonishment exploded the captain.

“Wot th’ devil—-” he shouted. “Wot th’ devil yeh got on?”

“Bathing-suits,” said the tall man.

CHAPTER IV

The schooner went on. The two voyagers sat down and watched. After a time they began to shiver. The soft blackness of the summer night passed away, and grey mists writhed over the sea. Soon lights of early dawn went changing across the sky, and the twin beacons on the highlands grew dim and sparkling faintly, as if a monster were dying. The dawn penetrated the marrow of the two men in bathing-dress.

The captain used to pause opposite them, hitch one hand in his suspender, and laugh.

“Well, I be dog-hanged,” he frequently said.

The tall man grew furious. He snarled in a mad undertone to his companion. “This rescue ain’t right. If I had known–“

He suddenly paused, transfixed by the captain’s suspender. “It’s goin’ to break,” cried he, in an ecstatic whisper. His eyes grew large with excitement as he watched the captain laugh. “It’ll break in a minute, sure.”

But the commander of the schooner recovered, and invited them to drink and eat. They followed him along the deck, and fell down a square black hole into the cabin.

It was a little den, with walls of a vanished whiteness. A lamp shed an orange light. In a sort of recess two little beds were hiding. A wooden table, immovable, as if the craft had been builded around it, sat in the middle of the floor. Overhead the square hole was studded with a dozen stars. A foot-worn ladder led to the heavens.

The captain produced ponderous crackers and some cold broiled ham. Then he vanished in the firmament like a fantastic comet.

The freckled man sat quite contentedly like a stout squaw in a blanket. The tall man walked about the cabin and sniffed. He was angered at the crudeness of the rescue, and his shrinking clothes made him feel too large. He contemplated his unhappy state.

Suddenly, he broke out. “I won’t stand this, I tell you! Heavens and earth, look at the–say, what in the blazes did you want to get me in this thing for, anyhow? You’re a fine old duffer, you are! Look at that ham!”

The freckled man grunted. He seemed somewhat blissful. He was seated upon a bench, comfortably enwrapped in his bathing-dress.

The tall man stormed about the cabin.

“This is an outrage! I’ll see the captain! I’ll tell him what I think of–“

He was interrupted by a pair of legs that appeared among the stars. The captain came down the ladder. He brought a coffee pot from the sky.

The tall man bristled forward. He was going to denounce everything.

The captain was intent upon the coffee pot, balancing it carefully, and leaving his unguided feet to find the steps of the ladder.

But the wrath of the tall man faded. He twirled his fingers in excitement, and renewed his ecstatic whisperings to the freckled man.

“It’s going to break! Look, quick, look! It’ll break in a minute!”

He was transfixed with interest, forgetting his wrongs in staring at the perilous passage.

But the captain arrived on the floor with triumphant suspenders.

“Well,” said he, “after yeh have eat, maybe ye’d like t’sleep some! If so, yeh can sleep on them beds.”