It was a day of uncertain flaws of wind, puffy and squally, after a day of heavy clouds. They were sailing under reefed mainsail, for at one moment the squalls would descend sharp and treacherous, though there would succeed intervals when there was hardly wind enough to fill the sails. They worked down to the fishing-grounds and tried several places, but with no great success. Some of the boats put back to harbour early in the afternoon, dissatisfied with the conditions, as it was evidently an off day for cod. Others, including the _Viking_, held on, hoping for better luck. Then, of a sudden, the wind fell away completely two hours before sunset, and the sea was calm, save for the ground-swell, which heaved up into waves that did not break, but in which the _Viking_ rolled and pitched and tugged at anchor. “Perhaps we will get a sunset breeze and be able to run back,” said Harvey. But evidently the fishermen, more weather-wise, knew better; for some of the lighter, open boats furled their sails snug, got out their sweeps, and prepared to row laboriously back the three long miles. Others of the big boats made ready to lie out for the night. “Well, we’ve got a good anchor and a new line,” said Harvey. “There’s nothing rotten about the _Viking’s_ gear. We’ll lie as snug out here as in the harbour.” They tripped the anchor just off bottom, got out the sweeps, and worked the _Viking_ back a dozen rods or so from the shallow water about the reef. Then they dropped anchor again, with plenty of slack to the rope, to let the yacht ride easy with less strain on the anchorage. There were a half-dozen boats within hailing distance, similarly anchored, including Skipper Martel and his pinkey. “We’re in good company,” said Henry Burns, laughing. “But I’m glad Jack isn’t near enough to stir him up.” Evening came on, and the little fleet resembled a village afloat, with the tiny wreaths of smoke curling up from the cabin-funnels. The night was clear overhead and the hills of Loon Island shone purple in the waning sunlight, streaked here and there with broad patches of black shadow. The ground-swell broke upon the reef heavily, sending up a shower of spray high in air, weird and grimly beautiful in the twilight. “That’s good music to sleep by,” said Bob, as the booming from the reef came to their ears while they sat at supper. “Yes, it’s all right on a night like this,” assented Harvey. “You’ll sleep as sound as in the tent.” It grew dark, and the little fleet set its lanterns, though it was mere conformance to custom in this case, since no craft ever made a thoroughfare where they lay. “What do you think?” asked Henry Burns two hours later, as he and Harvey stood outside, taking a survey of the sea and sky, and making sure once more that their anchor-rope was clear and well hitched—“What do you think, Jack, do we need to keep watch?”