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One and all hastened on deck. On our left, in the fog and rain, tossed a little steamer which was recognized as the steam pilot-boat stationed at Sandy Hook. She was starboarding to come nearer and several of her pilots and crew were at her rail hailing us. As she approached, keener ears made out that she wanted to put two men aboard us.

“We don’t want any more men aboard here,” said one. “We’ve got seven now.”

“No!” said several in chorus. “Tell ’em we can’t take ’em.”

“We can’t take any more,” shouted the helmsman, in long-drawn sounds. “We’ve got seven aboard now.”

“Orders to put two men aboard ye,” came back over the tumbling waters. “We’ve a sick man.”

“Don’t let ’em put any more men aboard here. Where they goin’ to sleep?” argued another. “One man’s got to bunk it as it is, unless we lose one pretty soon.”

“How you goin’ to help it? They’re puttin’ their men out.”

“Head away! Head away! They can’t come aboard if you head away!”

“Oh, well; it’s too late now.”

It was really too late, for the steamer had already cast a yawl and the two men, together with the crew, were in it and heading over the churning water. All watched them as they came alongside and clambered on.