"We are going on a long voyage. Fill the water-tanks and the ice-box, and take this list to the store. Bring off the stuff with you. But first mail this letter. No drink. Dost thou understand?" "Yes, master." "The least sign of liquor and I leave thee on the beach and ship a clean man in thy place. Remember." "Yes, master." "Very well. Go!" The Finn swung up through the hatch like a chimpanzee. Applebo sat for a moment thinking. Then he flung his great frame back on the bunk, and reaching into the book-locker, took therefrom a copy of Rostand's "Cyrano." This was his favourite of modern poems. He began to read aloud, in sonorous tones, and with careful regard to the scansion:-- "... Je t'aime, je suis fou, je n'en peux plus, c'est trop. "Ton nom est dans mon cœur comme dans un grelot..." Which, when one considers that the name at that moment tinkling in the heart of Applebo was the name of the wrong girl, made of his pleasure in the verses a delightful irony! He was still half reading, half didactically reciting, when there came the splash of oars alongside and Applebo threw down the poem, arose, and shoved his tawny head up through the hatch to behold a small and frightened-looking boy in a boat. The youngster handed him a note and appeared loath to linger for the tip which the poet tossed him. Applebo tore open the envelope to find within a sheet of paper with the _Shark's_ heading. On it were the words:-- Sailing to-night for Halifax. CÉCILE. * * * * * * The middle of the following forenoon found the _Shark_ well on her course across the wide mouth of the Bay of Fundy. The schooner was almost becalmed and smothered in a thick white fog, through which the sun was trying to burn its way. On the starboard rail were leaning Paula and Huntington Wood, trying to look into the cottony blanket of mist. The yacht had been threading her way through a fleet of fishing-boats, and from all sides there came the faint or loud, but always muffled and elusive, _dong ... dong ... dong ... dong_ ... of the fishermen's bells. From the t'gallant forecastle of the _Shark_ there blared out at half-minute intervals the _honk ... honk_ ... of her automatic fog-horn. A few minutes before they had heard the shriek of a steamer's siren as it ripped its way through the fog. Directly it had come again, appallingly close aboard; so close, indeed, that people could be heard talking on her decks, and a gruff voice, apparently from the bridge, had rasped, "Lookout, wha'ar d'ye make that fog-horn?" The _Shark_ had answered the question for herself, when the same voice aboard the steamer said in a sharp tone, "Starboard! He's plumb under our baows!"