“By eleven we was well out toward the fishin’ grounds.  ’Twas the bad season now; the big fish had struck off still further and there wa’n’t another boat in sight.  The land was just a yeller and green smooch along the sky line and the waves was runnin’ bigger.  The Shootin’ Star was seaworthy, though, and I wa’n’t worried about her.  The only thing that troubled me was the fog, and that was pilin’ up to wind’ard.  I’d called Fatty’s attention to it when we fust started, but he said he didn’t care a red for fog.  Well, I didn’t much care nuther, for we had a compass aboard and the engine was runnin’ fine.  What wind there was was blowin’ offshore.

“And then, all to once, the engine stopped runnin’.  I give the wheel a whirl, but she only coughed, consumptive-like, and quit again.  I went for’ard to inspect, and, if you’ll believe it, there wa’n’t a drop of gasoline left in the tank.  The spare cans had ought to have been full, and they was—­but ’twas water they was filled with.

“‘Is this the way you have your boat ready for me?’ I remarks, sarcastic.

“‘That—­that man of mine told me he had everything filled,’ he stammers, lookin’ scart.

“‘Yes,’ says I, ‘and I heard him hint likewise that he was goin’ to make you sorry.  I guess he’s done it.’

“Well, sir! the brimstone names that Fatty called that man was somethin’ surprisin’ to hear.  When he’d used up all he had in stock he invented new ones.  When the praise service was over he turns to me and says:  ’But what are we goin’ to do?’

“‘Do?’ says I.  ‘That’s easy.  We’re goin’ to drift.’

“And that’s what we done.  I tried to anchor, but we wa’n’t over the ledge and the iron wouldn’t reach bottom by a mile, more or less.  I rigged up a sail out of the oar and the canvas spray shield, but there wa’n’t wind enough to give us steerageway.  So we drifted and drifted, out to sea.  And by and by the fog come down and shut us in, and that fixed what little hope I had of bein’ seen by the life patrol on shore.

“The breeze died out flat about three o’clock.  In one way this was a good thing.  In another it wa’n’t, because we was well out in deep water, and when the wind did come it was likely to come harder’n we needed.  However, there wa’n’t nothin’ to do but wait and hope for the best, as the feller said when his wife’s mother was sick.

“It was gettin’ pretty well along toward the edge of the evenin’ when I smelt the wind a-comin’.  It came in puffs at fust, and every puff was healthier than the one previous.  Inside of ten minutes it was blowin’ hard, and the seas were beginnin’ to kick up.  I got up my jury rig—­the oar and the spray shield—­and took the helm.  There wa’n’t nothin’ to do but run afore it, and the land knows where we would fetch up.  At any rate, if the compass was right, we was drivin’ back into the bay again, for the wind had hauled clear around.

“The Shootin’ Star jumped and sloshed.  Fatty had on all the ileskins and sweaters, but he was shakin’ like a custard pie.