That night, a little before dawn, Dan and Harvey, who had been sleeping most of the day, tumbled out to “hook” fried pies.  There was no reason why they should not have taken them openly; but they tasted better so, and it made the cook angry.  The heat and smell below drove them on deck with their plunder, and they found Disko at the bell, which he handed over to Harvey.

“Keep her goin’,” said he.  “I mistrust I hear somethin’.  Ef it’s anything, I’m best where I am so’s to get at things.”

It was a forlorn little jingle; the thick air seemed to pinch it off, and in the pauses Harvey heard the muffled shriek of a liner’s siren, and he knew enough of the Banks to know what that meant.  It came to him, with horrible distinctness, how a boy in a cherry-coloured jersey—­he despised fancy blazers now with all a fisher-man’s contempt—­how an ignorant, rowdy boy had once said it would be “great” if a steamer ran down a fishing-boat.  That boy had a stateroom with a hot and cold bath, and spent ten minutes each morning picking over a gilt-edged bill of fare.  And that same boy—­no, his very much older brother—­was up at four of the dim dawn in streaming, crackling oilskins, hammering, literally for the dear life, on a bell smaller than the steward’s breakfast-bell, while somewhere close at hand a thirty-foot steel stem was storming along at twenty miles an hour!  The bitterest thought of all was that there were folks asleep in dry, upholstered cabins who would never learn that they had massacred a boat before breakfast.  So Harvey rang the bell.

“Yes, they slow daown one turn o’ their blame propeller,” said Dan, applying himself to Manuel’s conch, “fer to keep inside the law, an’ that’s consolin’ when we’re all at the bottom.  Hark to her!  She’s a humper!”

“Aooo-whoo-whupp!” went the siren.  “Wingle-tingle-tink,” went the bell.  “Graaa-ouch!” went the conch, while sea and sky were all mired up in milky fog.  Then Harvey felt that he was near a moving body, and found himself looking up and up at the wet edge of a cliff-like bow, leaping, it seemed, directly over the schooner.  A jaunty little feather of water curled in front of it, and as it lifted it showed a long ladder of Roman numerals-XV., XVI., XVII., XVIII., and so forth—­on a salmon-coloured gleaming side.  It tilted forward and downward with a heart-stilling “Ssssooo”; the ladder disappeared; a line of brass-rimmed port-holes flashed past; a jet of steam puffed in Harvey’s helplessly uplifted hands; a spout of hot water roared along the rail of the ‘We’re Here’, and the little schooner staggered and shook in a rush of screw-torn water, as a liner’s stern vanished in the fog.  Harvey got ready to faint or be sick, or both, when he heard a crack like a trunk thrown on a sidewalk, and, all small in his ear, a far-away telephone voice drawling:  “Heave to!  You’ve sunk us!”

“Is it us?” he gasped.

“No!  Boat out yonder.  Ring!  We’re goin’ to look,” said Dan, running out a dory.