It was an inspiration that caused Dick to stop a nautical-looking man in South Street and ask him what saloon the tugboat men most frequented. “Duffy’s,” replied the man without hesitation; “corner of Fulton Street. It’s full of ’em at this minute.” In Duffy’s saloon the reporters found a crowd of tugboat men, and among them Captain Brett, of the tug Dart. Several of the captain’s men were there, too; and he was willing to negotiate. “Do you hear the wind howl?” Captain Brett asked. “It’s an ugly night down the bay. But I’ll risk the boat if you’ll risk your lives. Ten dollars an hour it will cost you, gentlemen, from the time we leave the pier till we get back.” The terms were satisfactory and the bargain was made, and in less than twenty minutes the Dart was steaming down the East River, Dick and Mr. Hills in the pilot house with Captain Brett. “You must understand,” said the captain, his voice half-drowned by the furious wind that pounded against the windows, “that I only take you to Port Monmouth. I don’t agree to land you there. There used to be an old wharf there, but it may have blown down; and anyway I couldn’t find it this dark night. You must take your chances of getting ashore.” “Very well,” Dick answered. “Stop at the Battery boat-stand as you go out, and we will attend to the landing.” “What good will that do?” Hills asked. “Why, we’ll hire a Whitehall boatman to go with us, boat and all,” Dick answered. “With his boat on board we can land wherever we like.” “Good!” said Mr. Hills; “that’s as good an idea as if I’d thought of it myself.” Five dollars proved sufficient to induce one of the boatmen of Whitehall to put his boat aboard the tug and go along himself, and a few minutes later the little tug was dancing madly on the rough surface of the upper bay. “This is nothing to what you’ll catch down below,” was Captain Brett’s comforting assurance. Down past the lights of Quarantine the tug steamed, through the Narrows, and into the lower bay. The roughness was nothing compared to the inky blackness. The world surely never saw a darker night. It was almost 11.30 when Captain Brett rang a bell and the engines stopped. “Now, then, gentlemen,” said he, “as near as I can judge we’re off Port Monmouth. I can’t say to a certainty, but that’s my opinion. A man can’t see through such thick black as this, and you mustn’t expect it. If you like to take your chances, I think you’ll find Port Monmouth somewhere off to the south’ard here.” Dick opened the pilot house door and stepped partially out, and Hills followed. The wind almost swept them from their feet; the total darkness, the fury of the gale, the tossing of the little boat were enough to appall them. “I don’t half-like this,” Mr. Hills said as they hastily drew back and closed the door. “The captain may be mistaken after all, and not be anywhere near Port Monmouth. What do you think?”