cargo at the site of Shark Ledge Lighthouse, eight miles
seaward.

On the dock itself, over a wharf post sprawled her owner, old Abram
Marrows, a thin, long, badly put together man, awkward as a stepladder
and as rickety, who, after trying everything from farming to selling a
patent churn, had at last become a shipowner, the Susie Ann, comprising
his entire fleet. Marrows had come to see her off; this being the
sloop's first trip for the season.

Lying outside the Susie Ann--her lines fast to an off-shore spile, was
the construction tug of the lighthouse gang, the deck strewn with
diving gear, water casks and the like,--all needed in the furthering of
the work at the ledge. On the tug's forward deck, hat off and jacket
swinging loose, stood Captain Joe Bell in charge of the submarine work
at the site, glorious old Captain Joe, with the body of a capstan, legs
stiff as wharf posts, arms and hands tough as cant hooks and heart
twice as big as all of them put together.

Each and every piece of stone,--some of them weighed seven
tons,--stowed aboard the Susie Ann, was, when she arrived alongside the
foundation of the lighthouse, to be lowered over her side and sent down
to Captain Joe to place in thirty feet of water. This fact made him
particular both as to the kind of vessel engaged and the ability of the
skipper. Bad seamanship might not only endanger the security of the
work but his own life as well,--a diver not being as quick as a crab or
blackfish in getting from under a seven-ton stone dropped from tripdogs
at the signal to "lower away."

Captain Joe's inspection of the Susie Ann's skipper was anything but
satisfactory, judging from the way he opened his battery of protest.

"Baxter ain't fittin', I tell ye, Abram Marrows," he exploded. "He
ain't fittin' and never will be. Baxter don't know most nothin'. Set
him to grubbin' clams, Abram, but don't let him fool 'round the Ledge.
He'll git the sloop ashore, I tell ye, or drop a stone and hurt
somebody. Go and git a MAN som'ers and put him in charge,--not a
half-baked--" here he lowered his muzzle and fired point-blank at the
object of his wrath,--"Yes, and I'll say it to your face, Captain
Baxter. You take my advice and lay off for this v'yage,--it ain't no
picnic out to the Ledge. You ain't seen it since we got the stone 'bove
high water. Reg'lar mill tail! You go ashore, I tell ye,--or ye'll lose
the sloop."

Many of the men ranged along the top of the cabin