“Our little pleasure voyage to Savannah is getting a dash of adventure in it, isn’t it, Grey?” He indicated the wreckage-strewn decks before us. “But it’s fine!” It certainly was a novel viewpoint from which to estimate a damage of at least a thousand odd dollars. An absolutely unnecessary damage, at that--and to a yacht as smart and trim as they make ’em. I couldn’t find it in me to agree with his enthusiasm, so I changed the subject. “She runs very well under power,” I said. “Doesn’t she?” came his hearty response. “A good, honest, mile-eating pace, which is not at all bad for an auxiliary. I think we ought to make Fire Island by some time after nightfall or thereabout, don’t you?” “Fire Island!” I exclaimed. He had betrayed me into an expression of the genuine surprise I experienced, and he laughed easily as he went on: “Exactly. I could scarcely continue in this fashion to Savannah, could I? And so, since you’re bound to know it sooner or later, I see no reason to avoid explaining a bit.” “Now naturally,” and he smiled again, “I’ve got to find some cove to lie in while I refit. Of course, those masts are going to be pretty short and stumpy when I restep them; but with reefs tied in, and engine going, too, I guess we can be on our way again well within a week, eh?” “But why not shift over to Greenport, and put two new sticks in her at the shipyard there?” I volunteered thoughtlessly. His grin became broader than ever. “I believe a little spot behind a couple of those low-lying islands in Great South Bay would suit me better; that is, under the circumstances.” “Oh, I forgot!” I cried, laughing, too. Here we both wheeled to a shout from Stevens. With one hand he still clung to the wheel, but the other pointed off over the waters. Seamen are familiar with those inexplicable “pockets” in a fog, and this one was as clear a “lift” as I’ve ever witnessed. Furthermore, it came in an exact line with a decided object; an object on shore; though one would never have guessed we were so near the “hard.” Over there, as though viewed through a gray tunnel, but clear as daylight itself, showed a bluff, surmounted by a lighthouse. “Montauk!” I cried. But before the fog banks once more swept the rift out of existence, my exclamation was answered vehemently. Stroth’s imprecation came low, but it carried venom enough to make up for much volume. Then we continued monotonously on our westward course through the mist. CHAPTER XV. ON PAROLE. That night, about nine o’clock, the atmosphere cleared to the rising of the full moon, and it proved Stroth’s rough estimate of the distance we could travel to be remarkably accurate. The lead had been constantly kept going, and when we were able at last to catch the rays of Fire Island light, it bore about three points off the starboard bow, and some four miles distant.