Then two or three oilskin-clad figures crept forward into the spray that still broke over the bows. The crew of the _Olaf_, crowding to the rail, looked down on the deeply laden little vessel from the height of their dry and steady deck. They watched the men working quickly almost under water on the low forecastle, and saw that it was good. Captain Cable stood swaying on the bridge--a little, square figure in gleaming oilskins--and said no word. He had a picked crew. He passed ahead of the _Olaf_ and anchored there, paying out cable as if he were going to ride out a cyclone. The steamer had no name visible, a sail hanging carelessly over the stern completely hid name and port of registry. Her forward name-boards had been removed. Whatever his business was, this seaman knew it well. No sooner was his anchor down than Captain Cable began to lower a boat, and Petersen, seeing the action, broke into mild Scandinavian profanity. “He is going to try and get to us!” he said, pessimistically, and went forward to give the necessary orders. He knew his business, too, this Northern sailor, and when, after a long struggle, the boat containing Captain Cable and two men came within reach, a rope--cleverly thrown--coiled out into the flying scud and fell across the captain's face. A few minutes later he scrambled on to the deck of the _Olaf_ and shook hands with Captain Petersen. He did not at once recognize Prince Martin, who held out his hand. “Glad to see you, Captain Cable,” he said. Cable finished drying the salt water from his face with a blue cotton handkerchief before he shook hands. “Suppose you thought I wasn't coming,” he said, suspiciously. “No, I knew you would.” “Glad to see me for my own sake?” suggested the captain, grimly smiling. “Yes, it always does one good to see a man,” answered Prince Martin. “They tell me you're a prince.” “That is all.” The captain measured him slowly with his eyes. “Makings of a man as well, perhaps,” he said, doubtfully. Then he turned to cast an eye over the _Olaf_. “Tin-kettle of a thing!” he observed, after a pause. “My little cargo won't be much in her great hold. Hatches are too small. Now, I'm all hatch. Can't open up in this weather. We can turn to and get our running tackle bent. It'll moderate before the evening, and if it does we can work all night. Will your Rile Highnes' be ready to work all night?” “I shall be ready whenever your High Mightiness is.” The captain gave a gruff laugh. “Dammy, you're the right sort!” he muttered, looking aloft at the rigging with that contempt for foreign tackle which is essentially the privilege of the British sailor. Cable gave certain orders, announced that he would send four men on board in the afternoon to bend the running tackle “ship-shape and Bristol fashion,” and refused to remain on board the _Olaf_ for luncheon.