In three minutes more “The Swallow” was furnished with a much larger and better anchor than the one she had lost the day before; and Dick Lee exclaimed, “It jes’ takes Cap’n Kinzer!”

For some minutes before this, as the light grew clearer and the fog lifted a little, Frank Harley had been watching them from the rail of the “Prudhomme,” and wondering if all the fisher-boys in America dressed as well as these two.

“Hullo, you!” was the greeting which now came to his ears.  “Go ashore in my boat?”

“Not till I’ve eaten some of your fish for breakfast,” said Frank.  “What’s your name?”

“Captain Dabney Kinzer, of ’most anywhere on Long Island.  What’s yours?”

“Frank Harley of Rangoon.”

“I declare,” almost shouted Ford Foster, “if you’re not the chap my sister Annie told me of!  You’re going to Albany, to my uncle Joe Hart’s, ain’t you?”

“Yes, to Mr. Hart’s, and then to Grantley to school.”

“That’s it.  Well, then, you can just come along with us.  Get your kit out of your state-room.  We can send over to the city after the rest of your baggage, after it gets in.”

“Along with you!  Where?”

“To my father’s house, instead of ashore among those hotel people, and other wreckers.  The captain’ll tell you it’s all right.”

Frank had further questions to ask before he was satisfied as to whose hands he was about to fall into; and the whole arrangement was, no doubt, a little irregular.  So was the present position of the “Prudhomme” herself, however; and all landing rules were a trifle out of joint by reason of that circumstance.  So the steamer authorities listened to Frank’s request when he made it, and gruffly granted it.

“The Swallow” lay quietly at her new anchor while her passenger to be was completing his preparations to board her.  Part of them consisted of a hearty breakfast,—­fresh bluefish, broiled; and while he was eating it the crew of the yacht made a deep hole in what remained of their own supplies.  Nobody who had seen them eat would have suspected that their long night at sea had interfered with their appetites.  In fact, each of them remarked to the others that it had not, so far as he was concerned.

“We’ll make a good run,” said Dab.  “It’ll be great!”

“What?” said Ford, in some astonishment; “ain’t you going to New York at all?”

“What for?”

“I thought that was what you meant to do.  Shall you sail right straight home?”

“Why not?  If we could do that distance at night, and in a storm, I guess we can in a day of such splendid weather as this, with the wind just right too.”

CHAPTER XIII

“HOME AGAIN!  HERE WE ARE!”