We kept before the wind in this driving way. All the morning and all the afternoon the rain fell. The cook served a wholesome meal of meats and vegetables, and afterwards all pipes were set smoking more industriously than ever. The two old pilots renewed their cards. Every one turned to trifling diversions, with the feeling that he must get comfort out of them. It was a little drowsy, a little uncomfortable, a little apt to make one long for shore. In the midst of the lull the voice of the man at the wheel sounded at the companionway. “Steamer on the port bow! Pilot-boat Number Nine! She’s hailing us.” “Well, what does she want?” “Can’t make out yet.” One and all hastened on deck. On our left, in the fog and rain, tossed a little steamer which was recognized as the steam pilot-boat stationed at Sandy Hook. She was starboarding to come nearer and several of her pilots and crew were at her rail hailing us. As she approached, keener ears made out that she wanted to put two men aboard us. “We don’t want any more men aboard here,” said one. “We’ve got seven now.” “No!” said several in chorus. “Tell ’em we can’t take ’em.” “We can’t take any more,” shouted the helmsman, in long-drawn sounds. “We’ve got seven aboard now.” “Orders to put two men aboard ye,” came back over the tumbling waters. “We’ve a sick man.” “Don’t let ’em put any more men aboard here. Where they goin’ to sleep?” argued another. “One man’s got to bunk it as it is, unless we lose one pretty soon.” “How you goin’ to help it? They’re puttin’ their men out.” “Head away! Head away! They can’t come aboard if you head away!” “Oh, well; it’s too late now.” It was really too late, for the steamer had already cast a yawl and the two men, together with the crew, were in it and heading over the churning water. All watched them as they came alongside and clambered on. They were Jersey pilots who had been displaced on the other boat because one of their number had been taken sick and more room was needed to make him comfortable. He was thought to be dying, and must be taken back to New York at once, and his condition formed the topic of conversation for the rest of the day. Meanwhile our schooner headed outward, with nothing to reward her search. At five o’clock there was some talk of not finding anything before morning. Several advised running toward Princess Bay on Staten Island and into stiller water, and as the minutes passed the feeling crystallized. In a few minutes all were urging a tack toward port, and soon it was done. Sails were shifted, the prow headed shoreward, and gradually, as the track of the great vessels was abandoned, the waters became less and less rough, then more and more quiet, until finally, when we came within distant sight of Princess Bay and the Staten Island shore, the little vessel only rocked from side to side; the pitching and churning were over.