A little after midnight the water drove them from below. A shelter was rigged on the t'gallant forecastle and all hands took refuge there. The wreck was lying stern to sea and the combers were breaking across the waist. The gale had not abated, but the wind was hauling, and now and again there would come a lightening of the sky and a breaking in the scud, through which an old moon shone pallidly. "Beginnin' to clear," said Bell, cheerfully. "Bet you what you like we will be sighted before first-drink time. Any takers?" There was no answer. Captain Bell took a few turns on the slippery deck, then paused by the windlass to stare out into the storm-driven murk. "Too bad the _Daffodil_ went out ahead of us," said he, turning to Hermione. "If ever a shark stood in need of her pilot-fish, then this one does." At the word "pilot-fish" there came a stir from the tarpaulin-covered figure of Heldstrom. Then the low but resonant tones of the dying Norseman reached the ears of Bell, who was still leaning against the windlass. "What's that?" asked Bell. "What does he say?" Hermione raised her pallid face and looked steadfastly into the gloom to leeward. "What was that he told you, my dear?" asked her father. "Uncle Chris told me something which I already knew," she answered, in a steady voice. "We have only to wait a little longer. Our Pilot-fish is coming." CHAPTER XVII The glass was rising and the dawn coming faintly when the _Daffodil_ stole from the shelter of Provincetown and headed out into the turmoil of Massachusetts Bay. The yawl was under her forestaysail, a storm gaff-trysail, and a scrap of mizzen. Applebo's plan was to reach out to sea, shaping his course around the Cape as the wind hauled, which he felt certain that it would, and not try to beat against the gale with its nasty swell. For such a boat as the _Daffodil_ there was no great danger. She was solid as a wooden shoe, with an uncommonly high freeboard, a generous beam, and deep enough to stand up against the sling of the foaming crests. Although but thirty feet on the water-line, she was "all boat" and the equivalent of much larger vessels of a different type. Also, she had been constructed for water of this sort, and had a low cabin-trunk and a small, shallow, self-bailing cockpit. Really, the only thing exposed to damage was the man at the wheel, and his first duty was to so handle her as to keep out of danger. The scud was rapidly breaking away as the _Daffodil_ slipped down past Race Point Light and headed out for the open. The wind was harder, if anything, but as the yawl encountered the first bad water the sun pushed over the horizon and a long, rich beam of golden-yellow flashed out between the sea and the low-flying storm-clouds. It found the little scraps of sail on the _Daffodil_ and bathed them in a golden light.