The captain's heart sank. He clung grimly to the boat and the limp body, and turned his head toward the Crosby fleet. The _Mehitable Barnes_ was a sheet of leaping, crackling fire from stem to stern! The captain stared, fascinated. And even while he watched, the flames jumped to the next schooner. The wind caught the fire and swept it in a sheet of gold the length and breadth of the fleet. One after the other, four of the schooners burst into flames. The fifth and sixth, in the path of the cyclone of swirling fire, were already smoking like smoldering logs. But he--he had a bigger proposition on his hands now than watching a fleet burn up. The inert form he supported wriggled slightly--its mouth breathed, feebly spat out water. If it weren't for Bill he could crawl over the gunwale into the dinghy, run ashore to the Herringbone--but what then? Nothing but the memory of the disaster he had caused by first putting such an idea in Bill's head. He could never look Mehitable in the eyes again. His rivalry with the Crosby Company, the mysterious sailing of the _Mary Chilton_ at night--who would believe his story of Bill's treachery? He could end it all by letting go of the dinghy and sinking--with Bill. Yet Bill was alive. The law of the sea---- But why should he rescue Bill? Bill had deliberately planned and executed the whole disaster; planned it even before the captain had mentioned scuttling the fleet, evidenced by the tar barrels. Why should the _Mary Chilton's_ buyer, a stone carrier, want tar barrels? The captain had done his best to avoid the _Mehitable_--fought for it, almost died for it. It was Bill's doing, the whole outrageous business. Yet Bill had done it for him. Wrong, to be sure, but still out of a sort of devotion--such devotion as a savage might show to his chief. A fellow who would do that for his skipper was worth saving. Captain Bert gripped the gunwale and Bill with an iron clutch and let the waves and wind do the rest. [Illustration] He knew that he must be badly burned; that Bill's burns must be even worse. Bill had been buried in the burning mainsail when it fell. Bill had caught it all on his back, thus shielding the captain while they struggled. There were boats headed from Howesport village to the burning fleet. On the Herringbone the captain made out lights moving back and forth. He wondered whether the men he had glimpsed on the schooner were safe. No doubt the lights on the Herringbone were those men hauling up their boats. If he could only get Bill into his own boat, get into it himself. It would be so much easier. The strain of holding up a man and clinging to the gunwale at the same time, with that scalding water tingling through every pore of his tender body--it was telling on him. But the Herringbone looked nearer, its illumined shore-line showing white less than a mile away.