"I'm afraid not, even there," answered the other, smiling at his friend's eagerness, "mainly because of that same question of fuel. The captain of the submarine would have to be in cahoots with some supply station, and with the howl that would be made all over the world by modern piracy, it would be hard for the fuel contractor to hide his output. The only way that I can see would be for such a pirate to watch out for ships loaded with what was most needed, run up and threaten to torpedo the craft with everybody on board unless they took to the boats, put a prize crew aboard and run that steamer to a lonely beach on an uninhabited island and start a supply depot of his own there."

"But a submarine couldn't carry a large enough crew to conquer a steamer."

"They wouldn't need to," said Homer. "It would be enough to send one man aboard to demand the treasure."

"Well?"

"The submarine could lie to, with her submerged torpedo tubes pointing full at the vessel. If within a given space of time the treasure was not shipped and the pirate lieutenant returned safe, a torpedo would be fired which would send the steamer to Davy Jones with all hands. As a captain is more responsible for the lives of his passengers than for their gold, he would have to consent. One might easily get half a million dollars from one of the larger vessels. Three or four cruises of that kind would be quite enough, and our friend, the imaginary pirate captain and all his crew, could retire from the profession."

"But do you really think such a thing is possible?"

"It's very unlikely," his friend replied, "but there's no doubt that it's possible. Several submarines have been sunk in the Great War, and one or more of these might be fished up by wreckers. Being hermetically sealed, no water would have got in, and their machinery would be as good as ever, even if they had been lying under the water for some months. As for crew—if the pay were big enough, there would be always enough desperate fellows to be found to make the venture. Yes, that plan is feasible enough. And, what's more, it would be hard to stop. Really, the more you think of it, the more possible it seems. The only weakness is the coaling."

"It seems to me," Eric said, "that if she could coal at sea, sink the ship and tow the boats containing the crew within reach of land, she would be pretty safe."

"Yes," his friend answered, "if she could stay at sea indefinitely until treasure enough had been accumulated, I believe a submarine could get away with it. There might be difficulty afterwards in getting rid of the bullion and the jewels, but, after all, that's a different question. It has nothing to do with the piracy."

Eric peered into the darkness, putting his hand over his eyes as though to look intently.

"Pirate, ahoy!" he called softly. "Three points off the starboard bow!"

The young lieutenant of engineers laughed.

"You'll be dreaming of pirates in your next watch below," he said, as he turned away, "or you'll be running up the skull and cross-bones instead of the Stars and Stripes and we'll have to court-martial you."

"Little chance of that," replied the boy, "but maybe there'll be a submarine pirate some day that we'll have a chance to chase. I'll live in hopes!"

By a somewhat curious coincidence, a few days after this conversation, the Miami passed the Dry Tortugas, the old-time capital of that Buccaneer Empire which for forty years held the navies of the entire world at bay. It was a curious chapter in the history of the seas, and Eric caught himself wondering whether the future of navigation held any such surprising and adventurous period in store. He was to learn shortly, however, that the Coast Guard was thoroughly fitted to meet similar emergencies and that her naval powers could be made swiftly operative even in times of peace.

As the cutter was proceeding to her station at Key West, she sighted a schooner, which, by signal flags, reported that she had that morning passed a bark flying the reversed ensign, with her yards awry and her sails aback. On running close to the schooner the Miami learned that the bark had changed her course when the schooner approached, and when the schooner fell on her course the bark came aback again. A second time the schooner went to her relief, and again the bark squared off on her course.

"Queer thing," said Eric, after the flags had been read. "What do you suppose it is?"

"Looks like mutiny," said his chum. "I suppose we'll chase her and find out. Too bad the schooner never got near enough to see her name."

"What's the odds? We've got a description. Hello! Forced draft, eh?"

"Yes, it looks like trouble. You wanted to see a pirate chase, Eric. I don't believe that's on the boards, but at least a mutiny chase smacks of the old days."

The information given by the schooner proved to be startlingly correct, for a couple of hours later the lookout in the crow's-nest reported,

"Sail on the port bow!"

"Where away?" asked the chief officer.

"Nearly dead ahead, sir," was the reply.

The captain leveled his glass at the craft. Eric watched him closely, for his expression was puzzling. In an hour's time the Miami which, under forced draft, was flying through the water, overhauled the vessel. Just as the schooner had reported, the bark was in irons, with her yards braced athwartwise and her sails aback. The British merchant flag was flying at her mizzen-gaff, with the ensign down.

No sooner was the Miami within a mile or two of the bark than the vessel squared around her yards and began to scud before the wind. She had a good pair of heels and it was not surprising that the schooner had not started to pursue. There was no real reason why she should interfere. But with the Coast Guard cutter it was another matter. A signal of distress had been seen, an American vessel had called on the cutter, and now the suspected craft was running away. The chase began.

No sooner did the bark realize that she was actually being chased than men were sent aloft, and the fore-royal and main sky-sail were set, a heavy press of the sail for the full breeze. This absolutely determined the fact that the Coast Guard cutter would chase, for the bark was fleeing. It was getting late in the afternoon, and within a couple of hours darkness would close down. The moon would not rise until nearly midnight, so that there would be two or three hours in which the sailing vessel could give the cutter the slip. Little by little, however, the Miami began to close up. The breeze freshened, increasing the chances of the fugitive, but still the cutter lessened the distance between them.

Immediately after dinner, a few minutes before eight bells struck in the second dog watch, the first lieutenant, at the captain's direction, gave orders to clear away the bow gun. The gun crew sprang to stations, and a moment later the sharp crack of a rapid fire six-pounder sounded across the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, an order from Uncle Sam for the fleeing bark to stop.

But the stranger paid no heed. With the glass, figures could be seen on the main deck and on the poop, but it was too far away to determine what they were doing.

The captain turned suddenly to the officer of the deck. "Did you see anything, Mr. Keelson?" he asked.

The officer, who had his eyes glued to his glass, replied,

"I thought I saw the smoke of shots!"

"That's what I thought," the captain answered. Then, in a quick voice of command, he added,

"You may use solid shot!"

A few seconds sufficed to carry out the work.

"Try for her upper spars!" was the next order.

The sharp crack of a shot from the six-pounder was the reply, and simultaneously, holes appeared in the gaff topsail and the main topgallant staysail. The wind immediately slivered the sails to ribbons and they began lashing about the rigging. At this, the main yards were swung round, the mainsails came aback and ten minutes later the Miami was alongside.

Two boats' crews, fully armed, were sent aboard. The situation which greeted Eric, in the second lieutenant's boat, was unusual. A rope ladder had been thrown over the ship's side from the main deck. Above the ladder was an excited group, all shouting at the top of their voices. The senior second lieutenant, who was in charge of the boat to which Eric had been assigned, took command of the party. He asked for the captain. One of the men pointed to the helmsman.

"Are you the captain?" the Coast Guard officer demanded.

"Si, signor," the man answered, "I the captain."

"Johnson," said the lieutenant, "relieve the wheel!"

One of the Coast Guard men saluted, stepped forward and took the wheel. The vessel was hove to.

"Are you English?" the lieutenant asked, when this manœuver had been completed.

"Italiano!" the captain of the bark replied.

"Then what's that flag doing there?" the Coast Guard officer asked, pointing to the reversed British merchant flag which still hung at the gaff.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"The only one I have. The mate he take the others," he answered.

"Where's the mate?"

An evil-looking fellow with rings in his ears and a long knife stuck in his belt slouched forward. He did not come alone. Half a dozen sailors, evidently part of a gang, came aft with him.

Thinking that a little example might be salutary, the lieutenant turned to the file of men who had come on board with him. The men had their rifles at the carry.

"'Tion! Order arms!"

The butts of the rifles came down on the ship's deck with the precision of clockwork and the rattle was ominous. The Coast Guard officer had a steely note in his voice, as he continued.

"You're the mate?"

"Yes," the man said sulkily, but in good English, "I'm the first mate, all right."

"Did you remove the signal flags from the locker?"

"What if I did?"

"Did you receive orders from your captain to do so?"

"Not exactly—"

"Yes or no!"

"N-no!"

"And was he on deck at the time?"

"Yes."

"Did he order you not to haul down the flag?"

"I don't have to do everything he tells me."

"Did he order you not to haul down the flag? Yes or no?"

"Well, yes."

"And did you haul it down several times?"

"Yes, but—"

"I don't want to hear your excuses or your reasons. That's mutiny," the lieutenant said, simply. Then, turning to the captain, he said,

"Do you accuse him of mutiny?"

"Yes," the master answered, "he mutiny."

"Put the irons on him, Quartermaster," said the lieutenant, and handcuffs were snapped on the first mate's wrist.

As the ammunition had been shipped from an American port, the Coast Guard lieutenant realized that complications might ensue. Accordingly, since it was only a few hours' run to Apalachicola, and the wind was fair, the lieutenant advised the Italian captain to run for that port and deal with the question of the mate and the other three mutineers before the proper court.

A file of men, under command of Gunner Sternow, was left on board the bark to preserve order. The mate and the three other mutineers were thrust in irons into the carpenter's shop, which was converted into a prison for the purpose, one of the cutter's men standing on guard. The following morning, the harbor authorities of Apalachicola having been notified by wireless, a tug came off bearing authority for the formal arrest of the four men, who were taken ashore and put in prison, pending action by the Italian consul and the civil authorities.

"I suppose this mutiny business is rather rare," said Eric to Homer, as the Miami swung out of Apalachicola Bay.

"Not so rare as you'd fancy," his friend answered. "There's not a season goes by that some of the cutters don't have to take a hand in settling mutiny. Why, only last year, a crew seized a vessel, in the real old-fashioned pigtail and tarred-trousers style, imprisoned the master in the cabin, and started to sail the ship back to the United States on their own hook."

"Where were they bound for?"

"'Frisco, from Philadelphia, round the Horn. She was the Manga Reva, an American full-rigged ship with a crew of twenty-three men. She was about 600 miles out when the men mutinied and sailed her back to Delaware Breakwater. The master succeeded in running up a distress signal, which was reported to the Onondaga. You know her station is just north of Hatteras. The Onondaga put an armed crew on board, and took the mutineers on board the cutter, steamed up the river to Wilmington, Delaware, where they were turned over to the Federal authorities to await trial."

"What did they get?"

"Pretty heavy terms of imprisonment," the other answered; "mutiny on the high seas is a mighty ticklish thing."

"What do you suppose this mate we collared will get?"

"Hard to say," the other answered. "After all, he's an Italian, sailing under Italian colors. Uncle Sam's always careful about international law. But the Italian maritime laws are very strict, and if he's sent back to Italy, I'm sorry for him."

For the next two months, little of adventurous importance occurred. The Miami disposed of several more dangerous derelicts in the gulf of Mexico. She assisted a small steamer belonging to the Public Health Service of Key West, which had anchored in an exposed position, and towed her to safe moorings. She rescued two men in a small motor boat, out of sight of land, who had drifted after the machinery had broken down. In addition to this, she floated and towed to harbor three sailing-vessels which had struck on the treacherous reefs of the waters of the Florida Keys. The work was constant, and the Coast Guard cutter was on the job without ceasing, but there was little to stir the complement to their utmost.

Then came trouble. From the wireless station,—that continuous recorder of difficulty and disaster, came word that a Norwegian steamer was ashore on Twisted Cay, and asking for immediate assistance against native wreckers. The Miami immediately started for the scene of the disaster, and about noon of the next day arrived in sight of the vessel.

"They've been having trouble of some sort," said Eric, as the cutter steamed up to the scene of the wreck. "And look at the nerve of them; they don't seem to pay any attention to us!"

The boats' crews were ordered out, and Eric, as before, was in the smaller craft. The two boats pulled to the side of the vessel, and the boy accompanied the second lieutenant on board. The steamer was lying with her head to the southward and westward, with a decided list to starboard. Twenty or thirty small sailing-boats were clustered round her, like ants round a piece of sugar. What was still more daring, while most of the wreckers had left the stranded steamer on the arrival of the cutter, others actually stayed on board. They were an evil-looking lot, and heavily armed.

The scene on board was a striking one. The first thing noticed by Eric was the presence of two men propped up against the starboard rail, pale and roughly bandaged.

"Where's the captain?" was the lieutenant's first question.

"I'm Captain Jorgsen," was the reply, as a finely built, ruddy middle-aged man advanced. "Glad to see you on board."

"Good morning, Captain. You reported by wireless having trouble with these wreckers," the Coast Guard officer remarked; "are these men of yours badly hurt?"

"One of them is," the captain answered. "Have you a doctor in your party?"

"We've one aboard. Mr. Swift," he continued, turning to Eric, "will you please take the boat and bring Dr. Fuhrman here?"

Eric saluted and was in his boat almost on the instant. The doctor, guessing that possibly the call might be for him, was waiting at the ladder with his instrument-bag in case he should be needed. Formalities were unnecessary, so that when the boat pulled alongside and Eric, looking up, saw the doctor at the rail he called,

"Couple of patients for you, Doctor."

"Right you are," was the answer, and the surgeon came down the ladder as nimbly as Eric could have done himself. On arriving at the wrecked steamer, it was found that the injuries were knife-wounds, one of them deep and necessitating an immediate operation.

As there was a good deal of likelihood that the steamer might go to pieces on the reef if a storm blew up, it was decided to take the two injured men to the Miami, where the doctor could give them better attention. Owing to the difficulty of the steamer's position on the reef, with the surf breaking over her to the windward and the rocks to lee, this trans-shipment of the injured men was not accomplished without difficulty, but by three o'clock in the afternoon, the men were safely on board the cutter.

Meantime the lieutenant had been trying to place the responsibility for the crime, but this was impossible. All that the captain of the steamer could say was that, during a fight with the wreckers the preceding night, these two men had been knifed. In response to questions, Captain Jorgsen expressed the hope that some of the wreckers had got hurt themselves, but he regretted that his crew had been defenseless, with nothing but belaying pins and such like weapons for their protection. As the belaying pins in question were iron and twice as heavy as a policeman's club, Eric could not help smiling at the suggestion of inoffensiveness that the captain conveyed.

At the request of the captain of the steamer, the Miami agreed to lie by her through the night, until the arrival of a wrecking tug from Havana, a message having been received by the Miami that the tug had started for the scene of the disaster. Steam had been kept up on the wrecked steamer for the handling of the winches and so forth.

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, about two bells in the middle watch, a succession of short, sharp whistles from the steamer pierced the darkness. The first lieutenant of the Miami was on the deck in a few moments. Meantime, the officer of the watch had ordered the searchlight thrown on the steamer.

The light revealed the deck a struggling mass of men. In the darkness all the wreckers had gathered to board their victim, and at a given signal not less than a hundred and fifty men had swarmed on to the vessel's decks.

The crew was pinned back into two groups, fighting like wild-cats. Most of them, powerfully built Scandinavians, were sweeping aside the natives before them, but the odds were overpowering. The negroes shouted and yelled as they tried to beat the sailors down. Already the main hatch had been forced open and a stream of men was pouring down, for the wreckers knew of valuables which formed a part of the cargo.

A few sharp orders, and the cutter's boats were off to the wreck, the crews armed, their rifles loaded with ball. At the same time, one of the six-pounders was let loose and sent a few shots whistling over the steamer, illumined only by the patch of intense white light thrown by the searchlight of the Miami.

The boats were half-way across to the steamer, where there was a sudden cessation of the fighting, and over the side of the vessel the wreckers came swarming like rats leaving a sinking ship. But the Miami's men had been too quick for all to escape and more than a dozen of the natives were pinned on board.

As soon as the wreckers had heard the Miami's guns and fled, the tide of battle turned, and on the dozen which remained, the crew of the steamer had taken a swift vengeance. None of them was seriously hurt, but they had been beaten up in a way that they would remember to the end of their days. Captain Jorgsen, who had been in the thick of the fight, was to the front when the cutter boats landed.

"I wish you'd put a hole in every one of those thieving boats," he growled.

"They deserve it, all right," the Coast Guard officer answered, "but I doubt if the Department would approve."

"If I had a gun like yours," said Captain Jorgsen, grimly, "I'd fire at 'em an' keep firing until I didn't have a shot left in the locker."

"I'm afraid we can't very well send you over one of our six-pounders," said the other, "but it seems to me you have a right to protect yourself from being boarded in this way. I'll send over some small-arms and ammunition in the morning and we'll stand by you and keep these black rascals in order. But I wanted to ask you, Captain Jorgsen, how did you come to be so far out of your course?"

"I was right on my course," the skipper growled. "That's what makes me so sore. But when I passed Cross Keys light, I thought I must have figured wrong. I never stopped to think why the light was nearly a quarter of a degree from where she should have been by my reckoning, and I changed my course by that."

"Well?"

"One of my men heard those chicken-livered black-hided cowards laughing to themselves about the way they fooled vessels with their 'patent light.'"

"You mean that the wreckers have put up a false light to lead vessels on to the reefs?"

"It's that decoy light that brought me here," said the skipper, "and if you hadn't come when you did, I reckon every one of us would have had our throats cut and the vessel would have been skinned by this time."

CHAPTER XII
THE GRAVEYARD OF THE DEEP

From where the captain of the steamer had cited his position there was not a single sign of a lighthouse or a light. But, as the Miami crept on, far out of the regular ship's channel, as suddenly as though it had been just placed there, rose a spar, held in place with three wire stays. On the top was a little round platform, not more than a foot across, and spikes had been driven into the mast to act as a ladder by which to climb it. The Miami was almost on the tiny outcrop of rock before the mast was visible. It was painted a watery blue, which merged in with the color of both sea and sky, and was exceedingly difficult to see.

A boat's crew was sent ashore to demolish the mast and also to make a search for the light. To Eric, who went ashore with the men, it was quite an exciting hunt, "almost like looking for Captain Kidd's treasure," as he said afterwards to his chum, the young lieutenant of engineers. The quest was in vain, for though every inch of the islet was searched, there was no sign that the ground had been disturbed. So far as that went, there was very little ground to disturb, for the islet was little more than a coral rock, nearly covered at high tide. It was evident that the wreckers, when they were ready for their work, brought the light with them.

As the light for which the decoy was intended to be a substitute was quite a powerful light, with a regular occulting flash, the decoy itself must be powerful, and the Miami was anxious to trace it. If the native wreckers had such a lantern in their possession, probably they had some kind of clockwork and could alter the occultation of their decoy so that it would duplicate any one of several different lights on the coast.

It was not until some time afterwards that the Lighthouse Service learned that there actually had been such a light in the hands of the wreckers at one time. In a quarrel among themselves, however, over the division of the spoils of a small schooner which had run ashore, one of the disgruntled wreckers had thrown the lantern overboard in deep water.

"I hadn't supposed there was anything of that sort going on now, sir," said Eric to one of the junior lieutenants, discussing the question of the wreckers' lights.

"Nor had I," was the rejoinder. "The business of being a wrecker has changed a good deal. There's plenty of it, still, but it has become a recognized profession. A wrecker, now, has offices in a big seaport, with a fleet of ocean-going tugs and a big bank-roll. When a ship is reported ashore, either her owners pay him to float her, or he buys the wreck outright and takes his chances of being able to recover the purchase price. If luck is with him, he may get a good ship and cargo cheap, but if fortune frowns and a storm breaks her up before he can save the cargo, then he suffers a heavy loss. It's a good business, but a big gamble."

"I should think there was a lot of excitement in that business, yet!"

"Yes, there is. But it is organized now and wonderfully handled commercially. It's only in places like these outlying fringes of the Bahamas, that the native wrecker—the one who lives by robbery and loot—can still be found. In the old days, a decoy light was a regular thing. There were organizations that had offices in the cities, who used to make a business of this wrecking. Barnegat, New Jersey, was a famous point in the first part of last century. All the inhabitants were in league with the wreckers, there. Many and many a good vessel, in the early days of American shipping, was lured directly on to the treacherous beach, while the wreckers looted everything they could get, and plundered the passengers and crew. That's all done away with now. The United States coast is too thoroughly patrolled by the Coast Guard for any such business as that to flourish.

"I think the Wolf Rock story is perhaps the best example of the idea of deliberately wrecking vessels. You've heard of Wolf Rock?"

"Yes, sir," said the boy, "it's in the English Channel, off the coast of Devonshire."

"Did you ever hear why that particular rock was called Wolf Rock?"

"No, sir," answered Eric, "I don't think I ever did. Is it because of the shape of it, or because the sea breaking over it is like the fangs of a wolf or something like that? There generally isn't an awful lot of reason for the names of rocks and reefs."

"There is for this one," said his friend. "It isn't because it looks like a wolf, but because it howls like a wolf."

"You mean the fog-horn does?"

"No, I mean the rock does, or did," was the reply.

"How?"

"You've heard of blow-holes?"

"Yes, sir," said Eric, "there's one at the Farallones Islands. You mean those holes that make a noise when the tide comes in and out?"

"That's the idea. The Wolf Rock was a most famous case of that. It had a large cavern inside and a very small hole through the rock at the ceiling of the cavern. Then there was a cleft or fissure through the rock right down to this little hole. You can see for yourself that when the tide started to come in, it closed the sea entrance to the cavern, imprisoning a lot of air. Then, as the tide rose steadily, the pressure of the water drove the air out of the cavern through this little hole, continually making an intermittent blowing sound. The great cleft in the rock acted like the horn of an immense megaphone. This gave rise to a roar, high-pitched—owing to the smallness of the hole—like a wolf's howl. Night and day, but more especially when the tide was coming in, the howl of the Wolf Rock sounded over the sea to warn mariners of the perilous crag."

"Handy," remarked Eric; "it would save the Lighthouse Service a good bit of money if every rock could be fixed like that."

"It didn't do the English Lighthouse Service much good," said his friend. "What do you suppose the good people of Devonshire did? They set to work and hunted for weeks to try to find the hole, but it was so small that they failed. At last, having made up their minds that the Wolf Rock should cease to give its warning, they combined together and carted boulders from the beach to the top of the rock, with incredible labor, and after a month's hard work filled up the entire lower part of the chasm and then shoveled small stones on top."

"And thus silenced the wolf's howl?"

"Very nearly. If you stand on Wolf Rock now, you can still hear a low moaning sound as the tide comes in, but it's very faint. So far as a warning is concerned, the wolf is chained forever."

"And did the people profit by it, sir?"

"Within three months from the time of the silencing of the wolf, over thirty vessels crashed to pieces on the rocks around, and the people of the villages were made rich by the wreckage of the cargoes that came floating in, or by the plunder they took from the vessels which held together after the storm had passed."

"And those who were drowned?"

"They were drowned, that was all," the other said. "Of course if any survivors were washed ashore, the coast folk treated them very kindly."

"I don't suppose," Eric remarked, "that they ever told these survivors that they had done their best to make them the victims of the hungry sea?"

"Hardly! You've got to remember that people often have queer local ways. There are superstitions you can't defend on any ground. You know, at one time, it was considered bad luck to try to save any one who had been partly drowned. There are plenty of people, even nowadays, who won't cut down a would-be suicide who has hanged himself because they think it's bad luck.

"So far as the sea and sailors are concerned, I believe there's more humanity than on land. It's very rarely that you ever hear of a vessel that has refused to go to another's assistance. I think, too, the whole work of the Coast Guard is a standing example of the modern idea that nothing is more important than the saving of life."

"It often takes some big disaster to start it, though," said Eric. "After all, this Ice Patrol that the Miami is going on next month, was only begun as a result of the sinking of the Titanic, wasn't it?"

"That's all. But wasn't that reason enough?"

"It surely was," agreed the boy.

"I think the summer ice patrol is a mighty useful thing. If the Seneca keeps the lane of ocean travel free of derelicts and we cover the Ice Patrol of that same steamship lane, it ought to make a difference in the safety of ships at sea. Ever see a big iceberg, Mr. Swift?"

"Heaps of them, sir," answered the lad. "I was on the Bering Sea patrol last year."

"That's right. But you'll find the Atlantic bergs are different. There's a lot of ice in the North Pacific but it's mostly in small pans. No big stuff comes through Bering Strait. It would strand. And then the Aleutian and Kuril Islands make a sort of breakwater to head off big bergs. But in the North Atlantic there's nothing to keep the big Greenland glacier breaks from floating south right into the very path of the steamers. In fact that's what they do. You'll see some real ones this summer."

As the lieutenant had pointed out to him, the whole ice question assumed great importance, viewed in the light of the Atlantic Ice Patrol. The Miami, on orders from the department, steamed north and relieved the Seneca on duty. She picked up the bergs which the Seneca had found and plotted their positions on the chart. Every day at eight bells of the middle watch (4 A.M.) the wireless operator on the Miami sent to the Hydrographic office a statement as to the exact position of all bergs that had been sighted and the amount of their probable daily drift. This information was sent out again as a daily ice warning to merchant vessels by the Hydrographic Bureau.

Two months passed before an emergency arose, but when it did come, it proved to be one to tax the Coast Guard cutter to the full. Toward the end of September a storm warning of a hurricane was issued, and the Miami, which was searching for a derelict reported two hundred miles west of Daytona, Florida, decided to run for Matanzas Inlet. About daylight the next morning, the first actual warning of the hurricane, aside from the notice sent out by the Weather Bureau, began to show itself in short gusty puffs. The barometer fell low, finally touching 28°, lower than Eric had ever seen before.

The sky clouded gradually, and by breakfast time, the wind was freshening from the southeast. By ten o'clock, the wind had risen to half a gale, and before noon it was blowing not less than forty to fifty miles an hour. The Miami made good weather, but in the afternoon the hurricane reached such a pitch of violence that it was decided to run before the storm and try for the lee of Cape Fear, possibly finding a safe anchorage in Masonboro Inlet.

As evening drew on the seas became appalling. The Miami pitched her nose down in the water, shipping it green with almost every dive, while her propeller raced ten feet clear of water; next instant her stern would settle as though she would never rise, while the bow climbed up and up as the trough rolled underneath her. Eric, who was absolutely free of any fear of the sea, enjoyed the storm extremely. It was tiring, however, for, every second of the time, one had to hang on to something for fear either of being washed overboard, or hurled around like a catapult from a sling. When, therefore, the gaunt figure of Cape Fear light was passed and the Miami slipped in behind the lee of Smith Island, every one felt a relief from the mad tossing.

They had not known this relief for more than about four minutes when the spluttering of the wireless began.

"I'll bet that's some one in trouble," said Eric.

"Probably," his friend, the second lieutenant said, overhearing him. "Haven't you been expecting it?"

"Hadn't thought of it, sir," said the boy. "We'd plenty to do to get in here ourselves. Yes, there goes Mr. Keelson down to the captain. Could we find out what's up, sir?"

The two young officers sauntered to the wireless operator's cabin.

"Somebody in trouble, I suppose, Wilson," the lieutenant said.

"Yes, sir," the operator answered, "two-masted steamer Union reported in distress, partly dismasted and with her engines disabled, anchored in deep water off the Lookout Shoal."

"Probably dragging, sir?" queried Eric, knowing that his companion knew the coast well.

"Most likely," the lieutenant answered. "If she's off Lookout, and the wind veers round to the south'ard—which it's doing—that'll send her to Cape Hatteras and Davy Jones' locker in a hurry. We may get there in time, but there's not much we can do while this weather lasts."

"Hatteras is called the 'graveyard of ships,' isn't it?"

"There are a good many places in the world thus honored," said the lieutenant, "and, so far as America is concerned, there are two, Cape Cod and Cape Hatteras. There are five times as many wrecks between Barnegat Point and Seguin Island as there are in all the other coasts of the United States put together, but in proportion to the amount of shipping that passes, Hatteras is the worst point in the world."

"Worse than the Horn?"

"A great deal," was the reply. "Shipmasters know the dangers of Cape Horn and give it a wide berth—though steamers nowadays generally use the Straits of Magellan—but Cape Hatteras is different. It juts right out in the path of vessels running down the coast so that a ship makes almost a right angle at that point."

"It's a wonder they don't build a lighthouse out on the shoals."

"It can't be done," said the other, shaking his head. "The contract was awarded once, but the project fell through. The builder found it impossible to carry it out. There's a New York firm that has been after the Lighthouse Department for a long time to get a contract for the building of a lighthouse on the shoals of Hatteras, but it wants four million dollars, and the government thinks that a bit steep. A first-class lightship can be kept in commission on the station for a fraction of that sum."

"But is a lightship just as good?"

"N-no," the other answered dubiously, "a lightship, as such, is not as good as a lighthouse, supposing both were at the same point. But a lightship can always be placed in a more advantageous position than a lighthouse, and in places where a lighthouse is impossible, a lightship is invaluable. I should be inclined to say that the Diamond Shoals Lightship off Cape Hatteras, the Frying Pan Shoals Lightship off Cape Fear and the Nantucket Shoals Lightship off Montauk Point would take rank as three of the most important lightships in the world."

"But I should think they would get blown off their stations every once in a while," suggested Eric.

"They do," said the other; "not very often, but they do."

"Then what happens?"

"They steam back to their station and lie to as near it as possible. At one time lightships used to be without any kind of propelling machinery, and sometimes they were driven ashore. That happened to a German lightship at the mouth of the Elbe, not so long ago, and all the crew were lost."

"The Columbia River lightship went adrift, too, I remember," said the boy; "they had to haul her back through the woods in order to get her floated again and taken to her station."

"Exactly," said his friend, "that was another case of a lightship not having her own steam. It's not only to enable a lightship keeping to her station, or running to safety in the event of being blown off her moorings, but you can see that in a severe storm, if a lightship can steam ahead into the eye of the wind, she can take a lot of the strain off her anchors. To tell you the truth, it's my private opinion that the Diamond Shoals Lightship will need to-night every pound of steam she can get. Look for'ard!"

The lieutenant pointed with his finger. The Miami, starting off to help the disabled steamer in trouble, had turned her stern to the easy anchorage and safe haven not more than two miles away, and was headed for the open sea. Still under the lee of Cape Fear, the force of the wind was greatly moderated and the sea was not more than ordinarily rough. But where the lieutenant pointed, it was easy to see that the storm was raging in its full fury. The waves were running high, their crests whipped into spray by the gusts.

"You're right, sir," Eric agreed, "we're in for it! And, what's more, here it comes now!"

Almost with the word the Miami got into the full reach of the storm, halted, gave a convulsive stagger, than plunged into the smother. For a minute or two no one on deck could have told what had happened. The shriek of the hurricane through her cordage, the harsh roaring of the tempest-whipped sea, and the vengeful boom of the waves as they threw their tons of water on the deck of the sturdy vessel made the senses reel.

But the engines of the Miami throbbed on steadily in defiance of the tempest's fury. The Coast Guard cutter, like every member of her crew, was picked for service, for stern and exalted service. Hurricanes might hurl their monstrous strength upon her, eager billows might snatch at her with their crushing gripe, shoals and reefs might hunger greedily with foam-flecked fangs, still the Miami plowed on through the storm. From realms unknown where the elements hold council of discord, the forces of destruction launched themselves upon her, but the white ship of rescue steadily steamed on, with her lights quietly burning and her officers and crew going about their duties in calm and perfect confidence.

Morning broke with that blue-gray veiling of the world in a covering of storm that sailors know so well. It was one of those mornings when the best of ships looks worn and drazzled. The Miami showed scars from her night's battle with the tempest. One of the starboard boats had been stove in, and the davits twisted with the force of a wave that had come aboard. Even the most rigid discipline and the most perfect order failed to make the little vessel trim. There was an "out all night" appearance to the cutter which told—more than great actual damage could have done—the dogged endurance of the vessel against the fury of wind and sea.

But, down in the engine-room, the unceasing metal fingers that are the children of men's brains throbbed steadily, and the screw of the little vessel drove her on to her work of rescue. On deck, the Coast Guard men, clear-eyed and determined, handled their day's routine with a sublime disregard of the dangers of the sea. Other vessels might scurry to safe harbors, but the Miami, flying the colors of Uncle Sam, set out on her mission to save, with never a moment's halting.

On the Miami drove. Presently, the crow's-nest lookout reported a steamer. She was one of the big West Indian liners, and she came reeling towards the cutter with lurchings that were alarming to behold. Only a certain quick jauntiness of recovery told the tale that she, too, was confident of her powers to weather the storm. She called by wireless that she had passed the disabled steamer Union two hours before, that the vessel was dragging her anchors and was in too shoal water for the liner to attempt a rescue.

"She's going to strike, sure," said Eric to his friend Homer, as the news of the message was received.

"And going right over the Diamond Shoals. How would you like to have charge of the Miami now, Eric?"

The boy looked thoughtful.

"A year or two ago," he answered, "when I was in the Academy, I'd have been tickled to death at the chance. Right now, when I think I know a bit more, I'm quite satisfied to have Keelson on the bridge. I notice the captain's been around a good bit, too."

"Our chief has been on the job below nearly all night, as well," Homer replied. "I'm thinking, Eric, that this is about as bad weather as any vessel can live through!"

On through the storm the Miami sped, her engine driving at its fullest speed despite the terrific strain put upon it when the vessel heaved her stern out of water and the screw raced madly with nothing to catch. On she sped, though her bow was pointed straight for the most treacherous shoals on the Atlantic coast, bars of avid quicksand, on which thousands of vessels had gone to swift and awful destruction. On toward the Diamond Shoals the cutter pierced her way, though the gray veil of driving spray hid everything a score of fathom before the vessel's bow.