What little wind that had been stirring throughout the remainder of daylight, after the short squall, fell flat at sundown; and when the thick weather had so lightened that the stars, as well as the moon, could be distinguished, we found ourselves riding over an unrippled ground swell. It was phantomlike and eerie out there on that heaving oil, not a spar or sail striking its outline against the heavens, but a steady purr of waters as they slid under the schooner’s spoon bow. I had never known an engine of the explosive type to work more quietly. Whoever fitted that muffler knew his business. Moreover, there was a certain enjoyment in this very weirdness, an enjoyment which was enhanced for me by the fact that, since the gloaming, Stella Stroth had joined us on deck. Indeed, at the moment when the light was first descried, she was leaning lightly over the rail at the quarter, gazing down into the mystery of the black waters slipping by. “Two pennies for your thought,” said I, rather lamely. “Why, odd enough,” she replied slowly. “I was just thinking what an odd thing the whole business is!” “What whole business?” I said lightly. “Oh, living,” she answered quietly. “A fine kind of remark for eighteen,” I bantered. “Especially with a moon like that overhead.” “I’m not eighteen, I’m twenty!” she cried, and then we both laughed as we turned to a step that sounded on deck alongside us. It was Stroth. But he continued his way forward, paying no attention to us. We kept watching him, though, for purpose rang in his step. To a gesture, one of the sailors cast loose the foghorn which had been lashed to the bitts during our run in the fog. The fellow disappeared with it down the forecastle hatch; then reappeared next instant, and extinguished the side lights, which, to avoid collision from coasting schooners, had been rigged to jury fixtures at the rails. Disappearing once more to the hold, he doused the forecastle light also, and a turn of inquiry I made aft showed that the main cabin was likewise dark. Not a glimmer anywhere showed from this low, black, smooth-running cripple as she veered northward and pointed for the inlet. Even the clouds favored that short passage, for a husky, gray-cotton one billowed across the moon just as we neared the strait. At that minute I felt Stroth beside me. “Know the channel in here, sir?” said I. “Well, rather,” he replied. “Besides, the _Ruby Light_ draws little more than three feet--built for Florida waters, you know.” Then he strode from us, and took the wheel from Stevens. It was easy enough to see who was the real captain. Next moment we slid into the slip of the inlet, and entered the quieter waters beyond. Once in the bay, it took us all of two hours to creep to the spot selected, for Stroth checked the engine so that she was barely turning over. But, be it remarked, we didn’t rub the mud once, which tells its own story of Stroth’s ability, and knowledge of the channel.