With the return of daylight, following their narrow escape, Henry Burns and his friends, wide awake, had begun fishing early. It proved a record morning for them. They filled their baskets with cod, and piled the cockpit deep with them, and only hauled in their lines finally, about the middle of the forenoon, when they had exhausted the supply of herring which they had purchased for bait of the trader. They had about six dollars’ worth of fish when they weighed in their catch at the trader’s dock. It had been a satisfactory trip, on the whole, and had showed them what they could do. Deducting the money they had paid out for bait and for some provisions, they had netted nearly eighteen dollars, having fished a part of five days. The division of this gave six dollars to Tom and Bob and left twelve dollars to the two owners of the _Viking_. True, they would have a new anchor and some new line to buy out of this; but that was, in a way, an incidental of yachting, and might have happened in some other manner. There was a southwesterly blowing, with some prospect of its holding on late. So, after clearing up accounts with Mr. Hollis, the trader, and having an early supper in the harbour, where they were free from the pitching of the sea outside, they got under way and stood up once more for Grand Island, running free before a good breeze. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, and, if the wind held, they would make the foot of Grand Island by nine o’clock. They were impatient to be back at Southport, and were willing to sail at night if need be. And yet it was a mere chance that should bring them in to the Thoroughfare on time; for, just north of North Haven, and before they had come to the group of islands beyond, some one suggested that they stand on for Southport and go down to the Thoroughfare the next morning. Harvey half-assented, and then, with a fondness that still lingered for his old boat, was doubtful. “What do you say, Henry?” he had asked of Henry Burns. “I’ll do as you think about it.” “Oh, better go down to-night and relieve the crew,” said Henry Burns. “They’re probably sick of staying there by this time, all alone. At any rate, we’ll leave them a new supply of food.” But Henry Burns himself would rather have gone to Southport. The wind held on for all of the eighteen miles they had to run; but it dropped away to a very light breeze just at sundown, then freshened a little soon after. It was not until near eleven o’clock, however, instead of nine, as they had expected, that they entered and sailed up the Thoroughfare. Tom Harris, as lookout forward to watch the shoaling of the channel, saw, all at once, something that made his flesh creep. A stout, wholesome lad was Tom Harris, too, with no superstition about him. Yet he had heard sailors’ yarns of ghostly things in the sea—and he might almost have been warranted in thinking he now beheld something of that sort.