Frenchy Donahue and Ikey Rosenmeyer had caught several fish and were
satisfied; but soon they began to notice that their companions had
something on their minds besides the catch of channel bass.

"What's bitin' you fellows?" demanded Frenchy. "Had a spat?"

"I bet they've had a lover's quarrel," grinned Ikey. "Ain't you going to
speak to us, ever again, Torry?"

"Oh, my eye!" growled Torry.

But he and Whistler really had very little to say while the boat was
running back into the cove. The wind was not so favorable, so it took a
much longer time for the trip than it had to come out to the fishing
grounds.

"But if we use a drop of his gas, old Cap Bridger will know it,"
grumbled Frenchy. "Maybe we'll have to row her in."

A little flicker of breeze helped after a while, however; but it was
just then, too, and after they had rounded one of the crab-claw capes
that defended the cove from the ocean, that Ikey sang out:

"What's this coming? Oi, oi! D'you see it, Whistler? It's a streak of
light!"

The other boys turned to look seaward. Rushing in from that watery world
was a gray shape--narrow, low-decked, with slight upperworks and a
single stack.