"Take a couple of bights of that line, and make it fast on the third rung, you three-fingered blacksmith!" yelled our mate.
The Frenchmen guessed what he meant. At last the ladder was up, resting on our deck, and its end scraping the Gascogne's side. There was great danger that at any moment the top end might catch on an iron plate as our rolling tug pushed it upward. Then the great weight of the tug would crush the ladder into matchwood. No matter; that was one of the nerve-tickling details of the newspaper steamship hunt. Up ran two reporters and an artist, one after the other, while men stood by to throw them life-buoys if the ladder should be smashed.
But they got aboard all right. Afterward came the interviewing, the hurried writing of copy, the telegraphing from a secret place in Staten Island out of the reach of news thieves; but all that is the mere recital of how we carried home our game.
THE YOUNG BEACH-COMBERS OF MONMOUTH.
BY AGNES CARR SAGE.
"I say he sha'n't come in!"
"And I tell you he shall!"
The boys' voices rose high and angry; their attitude was threatening; and at the sound of contention a bevy of other barefooted urchins came scampering over the damp sand, shouting, "Hi! a scrap, a scrap!" and eager to see fair play.
"What's it all about?" inquired Ned Eaton, a good-looking youth, rather better dressed than his companions.