“Rout out all hands!” he shouted. “Rouse up bumpers and tarpaulin!” With the wind as it was, he realized that the schooner would point up in the _Olenia_'s direction when Candage headed out to sea. At last Mayo caught a glimpse of her through the fog. His calculation had been correct. Headed his way she was. She was moving so slowly that she was practically unmanageable; her apple-bows hardly stirred a ripple, but with breeze helping the tide-set she was coming irresistibly, paying off gradually and promising to sideswipe the big yacht. Mayo had a mariner's pride in his craft, and a master's devotion to duty. He did not content himself with merely ordering about the men who came tumbling on deck. He grabbed a huge bumper away from one of the sailors who seemed uncertain just what to do; he ran forward and thrust it over the rail, leaning far out to see that it was placed properly to take the impact. He was giving more attention to the safety of the _Olenia_ than he was to what the on-coming _Polly_ might do to him. Under all bowsprits on schooners, to guy the headstays, thrusts downward a short spar, at right angles to the bowsprit; it is called the martingale or dolphin-striker. The amateur riggers who had tinkered with the Polly's gear in makeshift fashion had not troubled to smooth off spikes with which they had repaired the martingale's lower end. Captain Mayo ducked low to dodge a guy, and the spikes hooked themselves neatly into the back of his reefer coat. Mr. Marston had bought excellent and strong cloth for his captain's uniform. The fabric held, the spikes were well set, the _Polly_ did not pause, and, therefore, the master of the _Olenia_ was yanked off his own deck and went along. All the evening Mayo's collar had been buttoned closely about his neck to keep out the fog-damp, and when he was picked up by the spikes the collar gripped tightly about his throat and against his larynx. His cry for help was only a strangled squawk. His men were scattered along the side of the yacht, trying to protect her, the night was over all, and no one noted the mode of the skipper's departure. The old schooner scrunched her way past the _Olenia_, roweling the yacht's glossy paint and smearing her with tar and slime. It was as if the rancorous spirit of the unclean had found sudden opportunity to defile the clean. Then the _Polly_ passed on into the night with clear pathway to the open sea. VII ~ INTO THE MESS FROM EASTWARD Farewell to friends, farewell to foes, Farewell to dear relations. We're bound across the ocean blue-- Bound for the foreign nations. Then obey your bo's'n's call, Walk away with that cat-fall! And we'll think on those girls when we can no longer stay. And we'll think on those girls when we're far, far away. --Unmooring.