Dick hailed again, but Flemming's reply could not be heard. "We'll have to get him off the barge somehow, Phil," declared Roche. "We can't wait for the others, and I don't know how they'll get on board. Now, look here: do you think you can manage the helm if I start up the motor?" "I'll do my best," replied the Tenderfoot resolutely. "You can't do more," rejoined Roche encouragingly. "So let's get to work and get about it." The first task was to bring the painter of the crashed and water-logged dinghy for'ard and make it fast to the mooring-buoy. Then Roche and the Tenderfoot fixed the sidelights and got the engine going--the last was a fairly easy task, since the cylinders were still warm. "Now," exclaimed Roche breathlessly, "go for'ard and cast off. By the time you're back at the wheel we'll have drifted astern and clear of the buoy. You're skipper now, Phil. Keep your head, and shout your orders clearly, and you'll do all right." Making his way for'ard, the Tenderfoot managed to unfasten the heavy mooring-chain. The buoy disappeared overboard with a mighty splash, and the _Olivette_, with her engine running free, dropped astern, her head paying off to leeward as she did so. Back to the wheel-house the Tenderfoot hurried. It was not exactly a novel sensation to steer, but it was to realize that he was now solely responsible for the direction and safety of the boat. "Ahead!" shouted Phil in a shrill voice. The _Olivette_ quivered as Roche put in the clutch. Then, gathering way, she headed down-stream. Roche kept her at "Easy ahead". With both hands resting on the top of the reversing-lever, he fixed his eyes upon the youthful helmsman. It was a daring experiment, but circumstances justified the risk. Flemming was in great danger, and that was sufficient reason. Meanwhile the Tenderfoot had opened the for'ard windows of the wheel-house and was peering through the darkness. Nearly all the shore lights were now extinguished, but there were the lighthouses with their red and white lamps--those showing red being on the left, and the white on the right bank. It took a great amount of careful handling to avoid the numerous boats anchored off Duclair. Beyond was the steamer that had brought up earlier in the evening. The _Olivette_ swept past within fifty yards of her. Not a soul was visible on deck, so it was safe to assume that the derelict barge had drifted past her without colliding with that vessel--otherwise there would have been great commotion on board. Rayburn was beginning to think that in the darkness he had overtaken the barge without sighting her, when he heard a faint shout, just audible above the noise of the motor. There was no mistaking that shout: it was one of the Patrol cries of the Milford Sea Scouts.