g to his taut tiller-ropes, and more
by ears than his eyes directed his course. A few of the anchored craft,
knowing that they were in the harbor roadway, clanged their bells
lazily once in a while. Yacht tenders were making their rounds, carrying
parties who were paying and returning calls, and these boats were
avoiding each other by loud hails. Small objects loomed largely and
little sounds were accentuated.

The far voice of an unseen joker announced that he could find his way
through the fog all right, but was afraid he had not strength enough to
push his boat through it.

But Mayo knew his waters in that harbor, and found his way to the wharf.
His real difficulties confronted him at the village telegraph office.
The visiting yachtsmen had flooded the place with messages, and the
flustered young woman was in a condition nearly resembling hysteria. She
was defiantly declaring that she would not accept any more telegrams.
Instead of setting at work upon those already filed she was spending her
time explaining her limitations to later arrivals.

Captain Mayo stood at one side and looked on for a few moments. A gentle
nudge on his elbow called his attention to an elderly man with stringy
whiskers, who thus solicited his notice. The man held a folded paper
gingerly by one corner, exhibiting profound respect for his minute
burden.

"You ain't one of these yachting dudes--you're a skipper, ain't you?"
asked the man.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, I can talk to you, as one officer to another--and glad to
meet one of my own breed. I'm first mate of the schooner _Polly_. Mr.
Speed is my name."

Captain Mayo nodded.

"And I need help and advice. This is the first tele-graft I ever had in
my hands. I'd rather be aholt of an iced halyard in a no'easter! I've
been sent ashore to telegraft it, and now she says she won't stick it
onto the wire, however it is they do the blasted trick."

Captain Mayo had already noticed that the messengers from the yachts
were killing time by teasing the flustered young woman; it was
good-humored badinage, but it was effectively blocking progress at that
end of the line.

He felt a "native's" instinctive impulse to go to the relief of the
young woman who was being baited by the merrymakers; the responsibility
of his own errand prompted him to help her clear decks. But he waited,
hoping that the yachtsmen would go about their business.

"From the _Polly_, Mr. Speed?" he inquired, amiably.