ch was
in. They were backing out into the stream. He glanced above him at the
stay where the starboard side-lamp hung. But the grayness was unbroken
by a single ray of green.

Lang was running dark.

It was taking a long chance on such a night as this, Gregory reflected.
But then the whole business was a long chance. And Lang knew his
business.

Imbued with a fisherman's sixth sense of feeling his way along familiar
channels rendered unfamiliar by fog, Bill Lang piloted his craft
skilfully down the silent bay in the direction of the open sea.

Crouching in the bow, Mexican Joe sought with cat-like eyes to pierce
the gray veil of blinding fog. Narrowly averting collision with
unlighted harbor-boats, bumping at times over sandy shoals, plowing
through grass-grown mud-flats and skirting dangerous reefs with only the
smallest margin of safety, they came at last to the jettied outlet of
Crescent Bay.

The roar of the breakers sounded ominously close through the gray canopy
of fog. The little craft rocked briskly in the trough of the swell as
Lang threw the wheel over and headed out to sea. Flashing a small light
over the compass, which served as an improvised binnacle, he peered
intently at the instrument. Then he spoke softly to the man forward.

"Take the wheel, Joe."

When the Mexican had relieved him Lang bent low over the compass and
examined his watch. Then he joined Gregory.

"Twelve o'clock," he announced. "We've got to make Diablo before
daybreak. Sixty-five miles in less than four hours. That means hurry in
weather like this."

He turned to the man at the wheel.

"Crowd her, Joe," he called. "We're taking chances to-night. If we hit
anybody we might as well hit hard."

"Do you think we got out without being seen?"

Lang shook his head sagely in the darkness.

"Not much of a chance," he answered after a moment. "Couldn't have had a
better night, though. But it's mighty hard to slip anything over on the
dago. If the fog would lift up it would be even shootin' you'd see one
of Mascola's outfit trailin' us astern. We've got him nervous, I tell
you."

"It's high time they were getting nervous," Gregory rejoined. "When they
try to browbeat American fishermen off the high seas and coastal waters
it's time somebody was getting nervous."

He was silent for a moment and Lang as usual only grunted his assent.
Then Gregory went on:

"But there's something else that's making them nervous, Lang. Something