We bent the chains and put the anchors in the shoes, and on a Friday evening were almost within range of the Highland Light when a dense fog set in and deferred our hope of seeing it. The wind was moderate from the southward and we rounded to every two hours for soundings, and then kept on the course. A man was stationed on the top-gallant forecastle with a fog horn, which he sounded vigorously, and now and then received similar responses from neighboring vessels. The blast of one horn continued to draw nearer until it seemed close by us, then we heard a dog barking and a hoarse voice sounded through the fog, "How are you steering?" "No'th by west," said I. "I'm heading east south east," said the stranger. Then close alongside of us we saw a schooner. "How does Cape Cod bear?" I asked. "Nor' nor' west thirty miles," replied the skipper, as his craft vanished in the fog. "Just agrees with the chronometer," said I to myself. "That's doing well." "Pretty soon came another approaching blast of the horn, and in time came the same question, "How are you steering?" and a voice shouted, "Keep her to the no'th'ard and east'ard; I'm just going in stays." "Hard a-port," I shouted to the man at the wheel, and just as the ship's head began to answer to the helm, a cry sounded from right under our bow, "Hard a-starboard, or you'll run into me." I sprang to the wheel and lent the man a hand to shift the helm over, and then we saw a large three-masted schooner with her jib-boom almost grazing our fore channels. "All right, Cap'n, you'll go clear; I've got my jibs aback," shouted a cheery voice, and then he, too, drifted away into the darkness.