"Yes, sir."
"Wait for a boat from the yacht with three or four men in it.—Pull on your port oar a bit; that's good.—When they get ashore and go up the wharf, you take their tender and rush her out to a mooring same as Mr. Taberman's done. Do you see?"
"Guess so, sir," was Dave's response. "Do you want me to catch the same one?"
"Any one'll do, provided it won't be seen by a boat pulling ashore from the Merle. You won't have to go far to hide in this fog.—Little stronger on your port oar again; tide's cutting you down.—When you hear Mr. Taberman hailing, you stand by, and as soon as a boat goes by in answer, you pull out to the yacht and make fast astern. Give her plenty of painter; all she's got. Do you see now?"
"I guess I do, sir. You're going to have a boat on every davit that way, ain't you, sir?"
"If it works," Jack answered in a low voice, for they were now under the yacht's port quarter.
Dave pulled around in silence to the steps on the starboard side.
"Here we are, sir," he said in an even tone as he caught at the ladder grating.
The Merle, dimly visible by the foggy glow of her riding-light, was pitching slightly in the chop, and the small dinghy bobbed up and down beside her like a cork beside a floating spar. The waves slapped against the yacht's sheer, wetting her top-sides with spray and poppling away merrily under her counter. In the thick dimness her masts loomed up almost supernaturally tall.