"'Tweren't luck, sir; 'twere Providence. 'Twere th' Lord's way o' takin' care o' you."
"Well, it was a pretty good way, anyhow. But where did you drop from? I didn't see you till you threw me that line a few minutes ago."
"I were passin' t' wind'ard, sir, when I sights you, an' not knowin' who 'twere, I sails close in till I makes you out as a stranger, an' then you goes down an' I picks you up."
"That sounds very simple, but it was a good stunt, just the same, to get me the line and come around in this chop the way you did, and then haul me aboard before I knew what you were about--you kept your head beautifully, and knew what to do--and you only a kid, too!" added Shad, in surprise, as the moonlight fell full on Bob's face.
"A--kid?" asked Bob, not quite certain what "kid" might be.
"Yes--just a youngster--a boy."
"I'm seventeen," Bob asserted, in a tone which resented the imputation of extreme youth. "You don't look much older'n that yourself."
"But I am--much older--I'm eighteen," said Shad, grinning. "My name's Trowbridge--Shad Trowbridge, from Boston. What is your name? Let's get acquainted," and Shad extended his hand.
"I'm Bob Gray, o' Wolf Bight," said Bob, taking Shad's hand.
"Not Ungava Bob?" exclaimed Shad.