Very strange.  Very musical.

Perhaps no such words had ever before gone out over that part of the Atlantic; for Frank Harley was a missionary’s son, “going home to be educated;” and the sweet, low-voiced song was a Hindustanee hymn which his mother had taught him in far-away India.

Suddenly the hymn was cut short by the hoarse voice of the “lookout,” as it announced,—­

“A white light, close aboard, on the windward bow.”

That was rapidly followed by even hoarser hails, replied to by a voice which was clear and strong enough, but not hoarse at all.  The next moment something, which was either a white sail or a ghost, came slipping along through the fog, and then the conversation did not require to be shouted any longer.  Frank could even hear one person say to another out there in the mist, “Ain’t it a big thing, Ford, that you know French?  I mean to study it when we get home.”

“It’s as easy as eating.  Dab, shall I tell ’em we’ve got some fish?”

“Of course.  We’ll sell ’em the whole cargo.”

“Sell them?  Why not make them a present?”

“We may need the money to get home with.  They’re a splendid lot.  Enough for the whole cabin-full.”

“Dat’s a fack.  Cap’in Dab Kinzer’s de sort ob capt’in fo’ me, he is!”

“How much, then?”

“Twenty-five dollars for the lot.  They’re worth it,—­specially if we lose Ham’s boat.”

Dab’s philosophy was a little out of gear; but a perfect rattle of questions and answers followed in French, and, somewhat to Frank Harley’s astonishment, the bargain was promptly concluded.  Fresh fish, just out of the water, were a particularly pleasant arrival to people who had been ten days out at sea.

How were they to get them on board?  Nothing easier, since the little “Swallow” could run along so nicely under the stern of the great steamer, after a line was thrown her; and a large basket was swung out at the end of a long, slender spar, with a pulley to lower and raise it.

There was fun in the loading of that basket:  but even the boys from Long Island were astonished at the number and size of the fine, freshly-caught blue-fish, to which they were treating the hungry passengers of the “Prudhomme;” and the basket had to go and come again and again.

The steamer’s steward, on his part, avowed that he had never before met so honest a lot of Yankee fishermen.  Perhaps not; for high prices and short weight are apt to go together, where “luxuries” are selling.  The pay itself was handed out in the same basket which went for the fish, and then “The Swallow” was again cast loose.

The wind was not nearly so high as it had been, and the sea had for some time been going down.

Twenty minutes later Frank Harley heard,—­for he understood French very well,—­

“Hullo, the boat!  What are you following us for?”

“Oh! we won’t run you down.  Don’t be alarmed.  We’ve lost our way out here, and we’re going to follow you in.  Hope you know where you are.”