It was the third mishap of a similar nature that season, and in one case the venturesome hunter had lost his life, therefore the cook might well be excused for losing his temper over such carelessness. When he returned to the station the half-drowned man had been carried into the building, but he still retained sufficient consciousness to understand how his rescue had been brought about, and the cook heard him say to Tom Downey: “If it hadn’t been for your toy dog I should have drowned, for I’d swallowed so much salt water that it was impossible to make a very loud noise.” “Yes, I reckon you can set it down as a fact that Fluff C. Foster saved your life, mister, and from this out he, as well as his master, is a member of this ’ere crew if I can bring it about!” Joe Cushing said emphatically, as he emptied fully half the contents of the sugar-bowl into a saucer and gave it to Fluff, who was dancing to and fro, wagging his white tail furiously, as if calling attention to the fact that even a “toy” dog might be of some service in the world. [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. OFFICIAL PERMISSION. The story told by the stranger did not differ materially from that which the cook had imagined after seeing the overturned gunning-skiff. The young gentleman, Francis P. Bradford by name, had been paddling around the shore, keeping well within the shadow of the rocks in the hope of getting a good bag of wild ducks when they settled upon the water at sunset. He had begun the voyage from a point two miles or more distant, and approached in such manner that the men who were on watch could not have seen him. The shallow skiff, which Sam Hardy declared very emphatically “was little better than an egg-shell,” had run upon a submerged rock, and, the swell arising at that instant, overset her, throwing the sportsman into the water. Encumbered as he was by heavy clothing, and being by no means a skilful swimmer, the sportsman could do no more than keep himself afloat, while the boat was driven by the wind farther and farther from the shore. Knowing that a life-saving station was near at hand, he shouted for help; but, as has been said, it was impossible to make any very loud outcry, and, rapidly becoming exhausted, he believed death was inevitable until there suddenly appeared on the bluff, to use his own words, “what looked to be a ball of white cotton blown along by the wind.” “I had no idea it was a dog,” he said continuing the story, “until the fluffy object straightened itself out and began barking shrilly. I am certain the little fellow understood my plight, for when some person called him he ran back a few paces, and then returned yelping and howling until one would have said there was danger the volume of sound would cause him to explode like an overcharged boiler.”