Captain Dodge dropped one of the windows of his pilot-house and leaned on his elbows, thrusting his head out. The tug _Seba J. Ransom_ was still on the job. She was tied up alongside the wreck, chafing her fenders against the ice-sheathed hull. “Hello, Captain Mayo!” he called, a welcoming grin splitting his features. “Come aboard and have a cigar, and this time I'll keep the conversation on fish-scales and gurry-butts.” The man in the fur coat glanced from one to the other, and was promptly placated. “Oh, this is a friend of yours, is he, Captain Dodge?” “You bet he is. He's been my boss before now.” “If that's the case make yourself at home anywhere. But you know what some of these fellows alongcoast who call themselves fishermen will do around a wreck when your back is turned!” Mayo nodded amicably. “Step on board,” invited the boss. “I'm all right here in the dory, and I'm out from underfoot, sir. We're going along to the fishing-grounds in a jiffy. I'm only satisfying a sailor's curiosity. Wondered what you intended to do with this proposition.” “We're only grabbing what's handy just now. Some of the cargo forward is above water. I'm in on this thing in a sort of queer way myself.” This keen-eyed young man who had been so heartily indorsed by the tugboat skipper afforded the man in the fur coat an opportunity for a little conversation about himself. “I'm the outside man for Todd & Simonton, of Boston, and bought on the jump after I'd swapped a wire or so with the house. Happened into that auction, and bought blind. I believe in a gamble myself. Then somebody wired to the concern that they had been stuck good and fine, and they gave me a sizzler of a call-down in a night message. A man can sit at desk in Boston and think up a whole lot of things that ain't so. Well, I've flown out here with what equipment I could scrape up in a hurry, and you can see what I'm doing! There's enough in sight in the way of loose cargo to square me with the concern. But, blast the luck! If Jake Simonton had a little grit and would back me I believe we'd make a killing.” “Of course, it all depends on how she's resting and what will happen when the next blow comes,” said Mayo. “Have you been below?” “I'm a hustler on a dicker, and a hellion on junk,” snapped the boss. “I'm no sailor, prophet, or marine architect. I simply know that she's full of water aft and has got something serious the matter with her innards. I'm pulling enough out to make Simonton sorry he sassed me in a night message. Only he will never let on that he's sorry. He never lets loose any boomerangs that will scale around and come back and hit him. He wants to be in a position to rasp me the next time I make a mistake in a gamble.” “All the crew gone ashore--the Bee line men?”