I could not see Champe, who was behind me on the forward thwart. But when the ensign stood up and called to the boat-hook man to haul us amidships, I felt the grim sergeant’s determination in the thrill of the light craft under me. Catching the one fortuitous moment when the ensign was extending a hand to fend us off from the schooner’s side, Champe entangled his oar between the boat and the ship’s bilge, made an awkward effort to disengage it, and clumsily lost his balance, careening the boat with such a sudden jerk that the red-faced little officer went overboard in a clean, sharp headlong plunge. Whether it was Champe’s intention to drown the officer, offhand, or merely to make a diversion out of which something might grow to our benefit, I never knew. But the diversion was a fact accomplished, beyond doubt. With lusty sailor shouts, the man with the boat-hook gave the alarm, and to the watch on deck was added the watch below, which came tumbling up at the cry of “Man overboard!” Naturally, with no lights, and with the fog thickening on every fresh breath of the sea wind, the men on the schooner did nothing but get in one another’s way; and the ensign who, like many another sailor, could swim no more than a stone, would have drowned a dozen times before they got their tender down from the davits at the stern. But now I had my small inspiration, and with a quick word to Champe to secure his intelligent help, it was put into effect. It was a simple expedient, namely, to keep our boat within easy snatching distance of the drowning officer, and then to haul him aboard when he was too well soaked and frozen to remember his orders--all of which we did in the proper sequence, and with the desired result. The pug-nosed little man was no longer red-faced when we passed him up the side of the schooner and into the hands of his excited crew, and no one said us nay when we sheered off silently into the fog afterward, and diligently lost ourselves once more. That was no joke. We did lose ourselves beautifully this second time, and when, after what figured to us as two or three of the longest hours ever measured by falling sand grains, our boat took ground with a sidelong lurch, we had no more idea than a pair of innocents what land it might be. Here came our first disagreement. Champe was for sheering off again and waiting for the fog to lift: I said no; that the fog might not lift until dawn, and, in any event, we must land somewhere, sometime. The sergeant gave way, finally, but not without many misgivings openly expressed. Luck was not with us, he said, and it would be our unblest, crooked hap to walk straight into the arms of some of those who were looking for us.