his hand as he stood alone on the high bridge.

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