But, though the wind had fallen, we again faced that clammy nuisance, fog. For, as though it had but lifted to give us the warning Stroth did not heed, the mist once more settled its gloomy mantle over us--almost in disgust, I was pleased to fancy. The vessel still was rolling to the trough, but a certain sort of order was beginning to show out of the chaos of the minutes preceding. Stroth caught sight of me, and cried: “Come, lend a hand here, Grey! Every pound counts at this!” A quick glance about told me the scheme--a scheme which had come to him the very instant of the crash. All the hampering rigging had been cut away, and the spars, secured to lines, now floated aft, a tangled mass. “On deck with it, you see!” he exclaimed heartily, as he looked over his men that stood about him. And from that instant I realized that they were really _his_ men. There was a spirit in their way of jumping to his bark, a sprightliness of real zest, a vim that told its own story of master and crew. They loved him as much as they feared him. It’s a good combination aboard ship. And Stevens? He was one of the crew now; though I still read great worry in his face. And it was to old-fashioned “yo-ho-ing” that we fairly sang the spars over the taffrail onto deck; the mainmast to starboard, the foremast to port. A tackle rigged to the bitts had done the trick. When everything was lashed fast, Stroth motioned Stevens to the position at the wheel. Excitement, the joy of it, still lighted his eye. Then, with a “Come on, Grey!” he strode forward, and disappeared before me through a midship hatch. I followed down an iron ladder, and found myself in the engine room, where old Steve had already preceded us. “Located the trouble?” demanded Stroth. “Yaas, sir!” grunted the old bo’s’n. “But it’s wuss’n I thought fust. Shaft’s bent.” “You’re something of a doctor in this sort of thing, Grey?” It was more assertion than query. At least, he didn’t wait for an answer before adding: “Old Steve’ll show you the tools, and I needn’t say that the quicker we get way on the schooner, the better. “Meanwhile,” he went on, and his tone varied not a whit from its evenness, “I guess I’d better take a minute now getting this flipper back into commission.” He withdrew his left hand from his jacket pocket, where it had been hidden, and I believe that that incident told me more of Carl Stroth than I ever could have learned otherwise. “You see,” he explained simply, “one of the lads, in his eagerness to cut adrift a while back, missed his aim a trifle.” He unbound a tight-wrapped handkerchief. It was a nasty cut to look at, for the blade had found the fleshy part of the palm between wrist and little finger. The cut was clear to the bone. “Good heavens, Mr. Stroth!” I cried. “You’d better wash that clean immediately. Have you any peroxide of----”