"Yarmouth boat on her way to Boston," said Jim. "She'll pass too far north to see us."
He was right. The steamer's course kept her on the horizon, several miles off. Before long she vanished to the west. Half past eleven went by, and no fishermen appeared. Percy began to fear that Jim was mistaken, after all.
"Here comes our packet," remarked Spurling, quietly.
A tiny saw-tooth of canvas was rising out of the sea, miles northwest. As it grew larger it developed into a schooner under full sail, heading straight for the buoy.
"She sees us," said Jim.
Percy felt like dancing for joy. Nearer and nearer came the schooner. The boys could see her crew staring curiously at them from along her rail. Fifty yards off she shot up into the wind and prepared to launch a boat. They could read the name on her starboard bow.
"The Grade King," spelled Spurling. "I know her. She's a Harpswell vessel. Come out to seine herring. Bet she left Portland early this morning. Her captain's Silas Greenlaw; he used to sail with Uncle Tom. He'll use us O. K."
A dory with two men in it came rowing toward the buoy.
"How long've you fellows been hanging on here?" shouted a red-sweatered, gray-haired man in the stern.
"Since six last night. We blew down from Tarpaulin Island in the norther. Don't you know me, Captain Greenlaw?"