Slowly, gently, quietly, the rowboat slid among the green piles until
the stern of the big tug loomed overhead. When it was within reach
Captain Barney leaned out, made one end of the line fast to the tug's
rudder post and then, paying out about twenty feet, he fastened the
other end to the bitts in the bow of the rowboat.

It seemed an hour's waiting before the _Quinn's_ crew cast off the
lines, but in reality it was not more than ten minutes. As the screw
began to thresh the water and the tug to move swiftly out into the
river, it required rare skill on the part of the young boatman to
manoeuvre the boat so she should not be upset at the start. But Dan
had the skill required and more besides, as he knelt in the stern with
one oar deep in the water to the port side.

In the course of a few minutes they were fairly on their way, and
Captain Jim Skelly was losing no time. He had full speed before the
tug was a hundred yards from the pier, and the spray and the splintered
chips of ice flew back from the sharp bow, smiting the faces of the two
men in the little boat dragging astern with three-quarters of her
length out of water. Dan, kneeling aft, watched with eagle eye each
quirk and turn of the tow-line.

It is the hardest thing a man has to do--to tow behind a tug or
ferryboat, even under fair conditions. In this case, the conditions
were far from fair, for there was the ice, lazily rolling and cracking
in the heavy wake of the tug, grinding against the sides of the
rowboat, until it seemed that they must be crushed. There was great
danger that they would be. There was danger also that the tow-line
might slue both men into the icy waters and upset the boat.