Just how it had been made “right” didn’t appear. There was no oratory, no public appeal. But three times as many as the captain wanted were offering to go out in the fog and plant the great anchor in the choppy sea. “I—_me_. You haf bromise I shall go! Not?” A great muscular German was squeezing his way to Cheviot’s side. “All right. No hurry. They’ll be a while yet, getting those buoys right.” The general attention was riveted to the second boat hanging high over the monster anchor that was destined to be bound lengthwise along the keel. How was any craft to make her way mounted in so strange a fashion? How could anybody hope it wouldn’t sink? “No, the weight will be too well distributed,” Cheviot had said. “Yes, till you start layin’ the anchor out yonder,” the pilot commented darkly. Hildegarde made a sign to Cheviot. He came to her across the chain barrier, newly established to keep back the crowd. Before the girl could speak, “Those heavy ropes,” said Mrs. Locke, “that are to lash the big anchor along the bottom of the boat, how will you ever get them undone out there in the choppy water?” “Cut them,” answered Cheviot shortly. “What did you want, Hildegarde?” She looked at him appealingly, and then, as though abandoning some quite different point, “My Blumpitty is very sore that you are taking the big German instead of him.” “Can’t help that.” “Why didn’t you want Blumpitty?” “Too old.” “Why, he’s only forty something.” “We’ve got to have young men for this job.” “Then you think it’s very—” “No.” Cheviot cut her short. “Not if the right men are doing it—a mere matter of precision,” and he was going back. But Mrs. Locke kept him yet a moment. “I’ve just heard if one of those ropes is cut the fraction of a second before the others the boat’ll be dragged under?” “It’s got to be done simultaneously, of course, on a signal,” he answered quietly. “I’ve just been explaining to Hildegarde it isn’t a job for bunglers.” “They say it oughtn’t to be attempted unless by a disciplined crew.” “But there isn’t any disciplined crew,”—he was in the act of stepping across the chain—“and there isn’t any other way of getting off the bar.” “There are _other men_,” said Mrs. Locke, quite low. “Oh, plenty,” and he was on the other side. But so was Hildegarde. “You aren’t allowed over here,” Cheviot said. She was looking up at the captain and making him a little signal for permission. He nodded, and without a word to Cheviot she went up to Gillies on the bridge. In a few minutes she came down again, but instead of joining the passengers on the other side of the chain, she made her way to where, a little apart from the group of volunteers, Cheviot stood watching the small boat which, manned by the first officer, O’Gorman, and two others, was bobbing about dimly on the roughened water. Just as Louis caught sight of her one of the volunteers stepped between them. “What makes those fellows so devilish slow?”