exclamation.]

ANNA--[Jumping to her feet.] What's that?

CHRIS--[Who has regained his composure--sheepishly.] Py golly, dat
scare me for minute. It's only some fallar hail, Anna--loose his
course in fog. Must be fisherman's power boat. His engine break
down, Ay guess. [The "ahoy" comes again through the wall of fog,
sounding much nearer this time. CHRIS goes over to the port
bulwark.] Sound from dis side. She come in from open sea. [He
holds his hands to his mouth, megaphone-fashion, and shouts back.]
Ahoy, dere! Vhat's trouble?

THE VOICE--[This time sounding nearer but up forward toward the
bow.] Heave a rope when we come alongside. [Then irritably.] Where
are ye, ye scut?

CHRIS--Ay hear dem rowing. Dey come up by bow, Ay tank. [Then
shouting out again.] Dis vay!

THE VOICE--Right ye are! [There is a muffled sound of oars in oar-
locks.]

ANNA--[Half to herself--resentfully.] Why don't that guy stay
where he belongs?

CHRIS--[Hurriedly.] Ay go up bow. All hands asleep 'cepting fallar
on vatch. Ay gat heave line to dat fallar. [He picks up a coil of
rope and hurries off toward the bow. ANNA walks back toward the
extreme stern as if she wanted to remain as much isolated