The rest of the crew, most of whom knew him, were intensely interested in what Breeze had to tell them of the loss of the _Curlew_ and the rescue of her crew. They were still plying him with questions when the skipper of the _Albatross_ returned. He, like Mateo, had been one of the _Sea Robin’s_ crew upon the memorable occasion when Breeze had come to her, and now he gave the lad a hearty welcome. When he learned of William Mason’s desertion he was somewhat annoyed, but in a moment his face cleared and he said, “Why won’t you come with us in his place, Breeze? You shall go as an A1 hand, have a full share of the catch, and we are not likely to be out more than a couple of weeks anyhow. She’s a good vessel, and you are always such a lucky chap that you’ll be more than welcome aboard of her.” “Yes, Breeza, come ’long,” urged the cook. “Ole Mateo feeda you till you git fat like dog-feesh. Joe-flog, sea-pie, hatch, plenty good t’ings.” Breeze laughed at the earnestness of the old man and the inducements he held out, but said, “If I only could go home and see mother for a little while first, I’d go in a minute. I’d have to get a new outfit too; the only thing I saved from the _Curlew_ is this oil suit.” “We’ll wait an hour for you to write to your mother and tell her just how things stand. That’ll give you time to get an outfit in, too. I guess you’d better come along,” urged the skipper. “Outfeet!” cried Mateo, eagerly. “Vat you want? Peajack, boota, gole vatch an’ chain, eberyting vat you vill hab me getta him.” So it was finally settled, and an hour later, having written a loving letter home, and been provided, through the old cook’s generosity, with an outfit of clothes quite as good as the one he had lost, Breeze found himself sailing out of Boston harbor in the good schooner _Albatross_, bound for the George’s Bank. Certainly, nothing had been further from his mind than this, when he had entered the same harbor a few hours before; but he was rapidly learning that nothing is so likely to happen in this life as those things we least expect. St. George’s Bank, which furnishes the finest cod and halibut found on the American coast, lies about ninety-five miles due east from Highland light on Cape Cod. Its waters are fished all through the year by a large fleet of vessels from New England ports, but its supply continues apparently undiminished. It lies in a dangerous part of the ocean, for it is swept by the current of the Gulf Stream, is subject to fearful storms and dense fogs, and is crossed by all the transatlantic lines of steamers.