"Just outside there. Get the grapnel ready, Dick. Sharp, now!"
Sharp it was, and Ford himself lent a hand; and, in another moment, the white sails went down, jib and main; "The Swallow" was drifting along under bare poles, and Dick Lee and Ford were waiting the captain's orders to let go the neat little anchor.
"Heave!"
Over went the iron, the hawser followed briskly.
"That'll do, Dick: hold her!"
Dick gave the rope a skilful turn around its "pin," and Dab shouted,—
"Now for some weak-fish! It's about three fathoms, and the tide's near the turn."
Alas for the uncertainty of human calculations! The grapnel caught on the bottom, surely and firmly; but, the moment there came any strain on the seemingly stout hawser that held it, the latter parted like a thread, and "The Swallow" was all adrift!
"Somebody's done gone cut dat rope!" shouted Dick, as he frantically pulled in the treacherous bit of hemp.
There was an anxious look on Dab Kinzer's face for a moment. Then he shouted,—