“Hello, hello!” cried the Captain, rolling from his hammock. “Turtle? Where-away?” “I tink-um 'bout quallah mile, mebbee, four-piecee tortle all-same weatha bow.” “Turtle, hey? Down y'r wheel, Jim, haul y'r jib to win'ward,” he commanded the man at the wheel; then to the men forward: “Get the dory overboard. Son, Charlie, and you, Wing, tumble in. Wake up now and see you stay so.” The dory was swung over the side, and the men dropped into her and took their places at the oars. “Give way,” cried the Captain, settling himself in the bow with the gaff in his hand. “Hey, Jim!” he shouted to the lookout far above, “hey, lay our course for us.” The lookout nodded, the oars fell, and the dory shot forward in the direction indicated by the lookout. “Kin you row, son? asked Kitchell, with sudden suspicion. Wilbur smiled. “You ask Charlie and Wing to ship their oars and give me a pair.” The Captain complied, hesitating. “Now, what,” he said grimly, “now, what do you think you're going to do, sonny?” “I'm going to show you the Bob Cook stroke we used in our boat in '95, when we beat Harvard,” answered Wilbur. Kitchell gazed doubtfully at the first few strokes, then with growing interest watched the tremendous reach, the powerful knee-drive, the swing, the easy catch, and the perfect recover. The dory was cutting the water like a gasoline launch, and between strokes there was the least possible diminishing of the speed. “I'm a bit out of form just now,” remarked Wilbur, “and I'm used to the sliding seat; but I guess it'll do.” Kitchell glanced at the human machine that once was No. 5 in the Yale boat and then at the water hissing from the dory's bows. “My Gawd!” he said, under his breath. He spat over the bows and sucked the nicotine from his mustache, thoughtfully. “I ree-marked,” he observed, “as how you had brains, my son.” A few minutes later the Captain, who was standing in the dory's bow and alternately conning the ocean's surface and looking back to the Chinaman standing on the schooner's masthead, uttered an exclamation: “Steady, ship your oars, quiet now, quiet, you damn fools! We're right on 'em--four, by Gawd, an' big as dinin' tables!” The oars were shipped. The dory's speed dwindled. “Out your paddles, sit on the gun'l, and paddle ee-asy.” The hands obeyed. The Captain's voice dropped to a whisper. His back was toward them and he gestured with one free hand. Looking out over the water from his seat on the gun'l, Wilbur could make out a round, greenish mass like a patch of floating seaweed, just under the surface, some sixty yards ahead. “Easy sta'board,” whispered the Captain under his elbow. “Go ahead, port; e-e-easy all, steady, steady.”