"The yacht Albatross, bound for Havana," answered Dick. "Who are you?"
"I'm a lobsterman, fog-bound, and my 'put-put' boat is out of gasolene. For the love of Davy Jones, have you any aboard? I've been here ten hours, and I'm hungry enough to eat a raw crab. Give a hail until I get my bearings."
"A lobsterman!" cried Paul. "And old Widdy thought it was a mermaid!"
Jack called to Midwell, the mate, to have the whistle sounded, and then, yelling to the unseen mariner to approach slowly, the two lads peered forward from the bow of the yacht, for the first glimpse of the helpless craft. There was the sound of oars being used, and presently there loomed up through the mist a small dory motorboat, containing a grizzled son of the sea, his craft piled high with boxes of lobsters.
A moment later Widdy popped his head up through the companionway. Behind him were several of the crew.
"Is—is she—has she sung again?" asked the wooden-legged sailor, cautiously.
"It doesn't happen to be a 'she,' Widdy," answered Dick.
"You don't mean to say that it's a he-one, do you?"
"It's a lobsterman," spoke Paul. "He's out of gasolene. Have we any. Captain Barton?" for the commander was approaching.
