Captain Barney was tingling with fear.  Dan knew it, and smiled.  It was not often that any one had the privilege of seeing Captain Barney frightened.

As the tug veered to starboard to round Governor’s Island the tow-line slued to port and thence quickly to starboard.  The rowboat was snapped over on her gunwales and the water poured in like a mill-race.  A roar of an oath escaped Captain Barney’s lips, but before he had closed them the boat had righted.

“Shut up, will you?” hissed Dan.  “Do you want them to discover and drown us?  Ugh—­she skated clean over that ice-cake!”

“You’ve got me out here to kill me, Dan,” whimpered Captain Barney.  “‘A Christmas present!’ I see—­now.”

“Will you keep still?” whispered Dan.  “If they hear us, you’ll find out who wants to kill you.  The root she took that time was nothing.  There’ll be worse ones—­this boat is not through rooting yet.”

Neither was she.  Ahead the tug loomed, a great dark shape; and the pulse of her engines was lost in the roiling water rising from the screw blades and the hiss of it as it raced by the row-boat.  There was a dim blur of light from one of the after-cabin portholes and the shadow of figures passing to and fro inside could be seen.  The decks were deserted.  It was too cold to brave the night wind except under necessity—­a night wind that cut through the pea-jackets and ear-caps and thick woollen gloves of the two men in the rowboat.  Captain Barney felt a fierce resentment that the Quinn’s men should be so warm and comfortable while he was shivering.

“Christmas Eve!” he exclaimed.  “Fine, ain’t it?” and he flailed his arms about to keep the blood in circulation.

“Christmas Eve,” said Dan solemnly, as though to himself, “the finest I ever spent”; and he added apologetically, “even if I am making an eternal fool of myself.”

On they sped.  Frequently the tug would hit a large stretch of clear water, and at such times the jingle-bell would sound in the engine-room and the Quinn would shoot forward at a rate that fairly lifted the rowboat out of the water, while Dan, kneeling astern, oar in hand, muscles tense, and mind alert, was ready to do anything that lay in his skill to prevent an untoward accident.

Swish!  Zip! and the rowboat would suddenly shoot to one side or the other, compelling Dan to dig his oar way down into the water, bending all his strength in efforts to keep the bow straight.

“She’s rooting every second,” he grumbled, opening and shutting his hand to drive away the stiffness and then casting a vindictive glance at Captain Barney, the source of all the trouble.

And as for the tugboat-skipper, he sat and watched his companion, and resolved that, after all, there were a few things he did not know about watermanship.

Between the shadowy banks of the Narrows shot the Quinn.  Out of the harbor in a rowboat!  Even professional Battery boatmen do this about once in a generation.  The immense, shadowless darkness smote their eyes so that they turned to the cabin light for relief.