The dory was within fifty yards of the Lass before the men on deck became aware of its approach. Then, fearing some evil work in connection with the last desperate days of fishing, they rushed to the bulwarks and challenged the newcomers. They did not see, a mile away, a schooner without lights gently rising and falling on the oily sea.
“Who is that?” demanded one man, but he received no answer except “A friend,” and the boat continued its stealthy approach. It drew alongside the ladder in the waist, and the man in the stern-sheets rose. Kent of the Lass’s crew leaned over the side and threw the light of his lantern upon the man.
“By God,” he cried like one who has seen a ghost, “it’s the skipper.”
CHAPTER XXVII
THE REWARD OF EVIL
The Nettie B. was surging north, nearing Cape Breton. Nat Burns sat moodily on the top of the house and watched the schooner take ’em green over her bows.
Within the last day a fog with a wind behind it had drifted across the lead-colored ocean; and now, although the fog was gone, the wind was still howling and bringing with it a rising sea.
The equinoxes were not far off, and all skippers had a weather eye out, and paid especial attention to the stoutness of lashings and patched canvas.