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At midnight a little breeze sprang up and the schooner cruised about. In one direction appeared a faint glimmer, which when approached, proved to be the riding light of a freight steamer at anchor. All was still and dark aboard her, save for two or three red and yellow lights, which gleamed like sleepless eyes out of the black hulk. The man at the wheel called a sailor.

“Go forward, Johnnie,” he said, “and hail her. See if she wants a pilot.”

The man went to the prow and stood until the schooner drew quite near.

“Steamer, ahoy!” he bellowed.

No answer.

“Steamer, ahoy!” he called again. A light moved in the cabin of the other vessel. Finally a voice answered.

“Want a pilot?” asked our sailor.

“We have one,” said the dim figure, and disappeared.

“Is it one of the pilots of your association that they have?” I asked.

“Yes; they couldn’t have any other. They probably picked him up from one of our far-out boats. Every incoming steamer must take a pilot, you know. That’s the law. All pilots belong to this one association. It’s merely a question of our being around to supply them.”