fought for three days, her skipper standing on
the bridge and inaudibly giving thanks that he was nearing the end of
the voyage without the necessity for abandoning his craft for an open
boat, or remaining to go down with the ship after the manner of skippers
of the old school.

Here and there showed a rift in the rolling fog, and those who braved
the weather and lined the damp rail could see other craft in passing.

A giant liner made her way past majestically, bound for Europe, or a
seagoing tug clugged by as if turning up her nose at the old, battered
_Manatee_.

Standing at the rail, and well forward, Sidney Prale strained his eyes
and looked ahead, watching where the fog lifted, an eager light in his
face, his lips curved in a smile, a general expression of anticipation
about him.

Sidney Prale himself was not bad to look at. Thirty-eight he was, tall
and broad of shoulder, with hair that was touched with gray at the
temples, with a face that had been browned by the weather. Sidney Prale
had the appearance of wearing clothes that had been molded to his form.
He had a chin that expressed decision and determination, lips that could
form in a thin, straight line if occasion required, eyes that could be
kind or stern, according to the needs of the moment. A man of the world
would have said that Sidney Prale was a gentleman of broad experience, a
man who had presence of mind in the face of danger, a man who could
think quickly and act quickly when such things were necessary.

He was not alone at the rail--and yet he was alone in a sense, for he
gave no one the slightest attention. He bent over and looked ahead
eagerly, waving a hand now and then at the men on passing craft, like a
schoolboy on an excursion trip. He listened to the bellowing sirens and
foghorns, drank in the raucous cries of the ship's officers, strained
his ears for the land sounds that rolled now and then across the waters.

"It's great--great!" Sidney Prale said, half aloud.

He bent over the rail again. A hand descended upon his shoulder, and a
voice answered him.

"You bet it's great, Prale!"

Sidney Prale's smile weakened a bit as he turned around, but there was
nothing of discourtesy in his manner.

"You like it, Mr. Shepley?" he asked.

"Do I like it? Does Rufus Shepley, forced to run here and there around
the old world in the name of business, like it when he gets the chance
to return to New York? Ask me!"

"I have my answer," Pra