As they drew closer to the other boat the boys saw that she was a fine big cruiser with a lot of beam and a length of probably forty feet. Her cabin extended almost the length of the hull and in the small cockpit at the stern two men were to be seen. One was apparently engaged in some task that hid all but his head and shoulders, and the other, clinging to a railing, held a megaphone to his mouth as the Urnove came up to leeward.

“We’ve broken our shaft,” came the voice across the water. “Can you give us a tow?”

“Yes,” called Toby in answer, “if you’ve got a line that’ll hold. I’ll come about and run in close to you. Have your line ready.”

The other waved his megaphone in assent and the Urnove, plunging past, made a wide turn and once more approached. “Stand by with the boat-hook, Arn,” said Toby, “in case we don’t catch it. Don’t fall overboard, though! Ready, now!”

The little launch again drew close to the cruiser, Toby steering her to the leeward and as near as he dared venture. The second occupant of the big boat had given up his task and was bracing himself in the cockpit with a coil of rope in his hands.

“Heave it!” called Toby.

The coil shot across the few yards of water straight for the Urnove’s bow, but the wind seized and deflected it and, although Arnold did his best with the boat-hook, they missed it.

Coming around again was wet business, and plugging back in the teeth of the wind and water was none too easy. Those on the cruiser were ready for another attempt and as the Urnove plunged slowly past the coil was again thrown and this time Arnold got it and in a moment had made it fast to the stern cleat. On the other boat—the name on the bow was Sinbad—one of the crew crept forward along the heaving, slippery deck and secured the cable at the bow. Meanwhile the second occupant of the boat was speaking through cupped hands.

“Much obliged, you fellows! Can you make Cutchogue Harbor?”

“No,” called Toby. “We’ll tow you to Johnstown, over there, or into Greenhaven. Which do you say?”

“That won’t do, thanks. We’ve got to get to Cutchogue. This boat’ll tow easily,” insisted the man. “Name your own price, like a good fellow. It’s mighty important that we get to Cutchogue. Come on now! Can’t you do it for us? Any figure you say and we’ll pay you the minute we get there!”

Toby, keeping the Urnove’s bows to the sea, reflected a moment. Then he turned questioningly to Arnold.

“What do you say?” he asked.

“Let’s try it!” said Arnold eagerly. “It’ll be a lark!”

“If we don’t founder doing it,” replied Toby grimly. “All right. I’m game.” He shouted across to the cruiser then. “Glad to take you to Greenhaven or anywhere down here for nothing,” he called. “But if you want to go to Cutchogue I’ll have to charge you something. I won’t promise to get you there, either, but I’ll do my best.”

“Good boy!” was the response. “What’s your figure?”

Toby turned quickly to Arnold. “What’s twenty-five from seventy?” he demanded.

“What?” gasped Arnold blankly.

But Toby had solved the problem himself. “Forty-five dollars,” he shouted.

“Go to it, feller!” The man waved his hand gayly. “You’re a sportsman!”

“All right,” answered Toby. “Give me plenty of cable. Here goes!”

Toby speeded up the engine, the cable tightened, the Urnove’s propeller thrashed and churned as the weight of the bigger boat was felt, and for a moment, while the stout rope strained and dripped water, the outcome appeared in doubt. Then, however, the Sinbad’s bow swung slowly around, the line slackened a little, tautened again and the Urnove, with her engine chugging madly and the waves tossing her about, moved ahead.

Once under way, Toby slowed the engine down and headed straight into the seas. With that load astern the little launch shipped water at every plunge and Toby knew that his safest course was to make dead into the weather until he had reached the lee of Robins Island. There he could run northwest and, once around the end of the island, find smoother seas off New Suffolk where Nassau Point would break the force of wind and tide. But it was a good five miles to the southernmost end of the island and his course took him down the very middle of the bay. There was no longer any question of keeping dry, for the spray flew over the bows at every dip and now and then a full-sized wave rushed in, cascading over the seat and running astern to where Arnold was busy, bailer in hand. Toby steered with the starboard wheel, where he had the engine within arm’s reach, but steering the Urnove with tons of weight holding her stern down was a different matter from steering her under ordinary conditions, and Toby had his hands full. Behind them, at the end of the dipping line, came the Sinbad, swaying and plunging about, and looking, in the fast-gathering dusk, like some wounded and helpless sea-monster. Arnold, abandoning his bailer for a moment, crept forward to Toby’s side.

“What are we making?” he asked.

Toby looked back at the running water. “About four miles, I guess,” he answered.

“It’ll take us two hours, then. How about lights?”

“Better try, Arn. Maybe if you squeeze down and get your match inside the locker you can do it. If you can’t we’ll just have to risk it. They’ll light up on the cruiser pretty quick, I guess. Got matches?”

Arnold nodded and set about his task. Lying flat on the wet flooring, lantern and matches held under a seat locker, he finally met with success. Darkness came early that September evening, and long before the lights on Robins Island appeared ahead the Sinbad was lost to sight save for her lanterns. Arnold, too, had to fight, for water entered the Urnove not only over the gunwale but up through opening seams in her hull, and from the time darkness fell and the distant lights on shore twinkled through the night he had to bail incessantly to keep the water from gaining. Both boys were wet to their skins now and the searching wind, straight from the northeast, set them shivering. Arnold envied the occupants of the Sinbad, who, at least, had the protection of their cabin. He and Toby swapped jobs after awhile, Arnold taking the wheel and Toby the wooden bailer. They set the roughest seas about a half-hour after their start, by which time the bay had widened out and the wind, sweeping wildly down from Little Peconic, tumbled the water into a sea that might have daunted the skipper of a larger craft than the tiny Urnove. More than once, if truth is told, Arnold’s heart scampered up into his throat as some more than ordinarily ugly wave smashed at the launch, lifted it sickeningly, dropped it with a contemptuous bang and rushed madly astern. He was secretly relieved when darkness settled down. Probably conditions were just as bad, but they were hidden from sight.

It was about six o’clock when Toby’s longing gaze was rewarded by the flicker of a distant light which told him that they were drawing near to Robins Island. A few minutes later there was a barely perceptible decrease in the pitching of the launch and the wind blew with less force. Toby ran on until within what he believed to be a quarter of a mile from the shore and then swung the Urnove to port and, in calmer water now, ran toward the northern end of the island. Presently Arnold, who had gone back to bailing at the approach to land, shouted from the stern.

“Lights, Toby! Is that Cutchogue?”

“New Suffolk. Cutchogue’s beyond.”

“How much further is it?”

“The harbor’s about a mile around this point. I’m swinging around now.”

“Hooray!” yelled Arnold. “Oh, you harbor!”

Nassau Point, which stretches far into Little Peconic Bay beyond the harbor south, broke the force of wind and tide and after they left the lights along the water-front at New Suffolk behind they had smooth sailing. They towed the Sinbad well up into the harbor and at last Toby took the megaphone and hailed the cruiser.

“All right here?” he asked. “I don’t know this place very well.”

“All right, thanks,” came the answer. “Cast off when you’re ready.”

Simultaneously the boys heard the splash of the Sinbad’s anchor. Toby threw off the line from the stern and, picking his way carefully, swung around and approached the anchored boat.

“Pass us a line,” called one of the men, “and come aboard, boys.”

A moment later, murmuring apologies for their dripping clothes and blinking at the light, they stepped down into the snug cabin.

“Throw your oilskins off and get warmed up,” instructed one of their hosts. “I’d offer you some dry things if I had them. We’ll have some hot coffee ready in a shake, and that’ll do you a lot of good, I guess.”

Toby viewed the magnificence of that cabin with awed interest, but Arnold was gazing at the younger of the two men before them. He was not more than twenty-one, it appeared, while his companion was probably three years older. Both were fine, gentlemanly looking chaps in spite of their old sweaters and khaki trousers and generally dilapidated appearance. The older one was already busying himself at the little stove up forward, but it was he who took up the tale again.

“We’re awfully grateful to you chaps,” he said earnestly. “And you did a mighty plucky stunt. Frankly, I didn’t believe we’d get here. We broke our propeller shaft about three o’clock and drifted all the way down from Franklinville to where you found us. We thought for a while we’d be able to collar around the break and limp home, but it was no go. I dare say you thought we were a bit fussy in insisting on getting up here, but the fact is we’ve got to light out the first thing in the morning and there’s a chap we know who’ll tinker us up tonight. You fellows won’t want to go back, I guess, until the traveling’s better. We can bunk you down here just as well as not.”

“I guess we’d better go home, thanks,” said Toby. “Our folks don’t know where we are, you see.”

“How about telephoning from the village?” asked the other man. “You live in Greenhaven, don’t you?”

“I do,” replied Toby. “Deering lives on Spanish Head. I guess we’d better go back. It won’t be bad with the wind astern.”

“Well, you’re a plucky pair,” replied the other admiringly. “I wouldn’t make that trip again in that boat of yours for a lot of money. That reminds me, by the way.” He went to a locker and brought forth a purse. “We’d better settle while we think of it. There’s one thing, though, I would like to know,” he went on, smiling at Toby as he counted out the money. “Why did you ask forty-five dollars instead of fifty? Just how did you arrive at that figure? It’s puzzled me ever since.”

Toby hesitated. Then: “I needed forty-five, sir, and I thought it wouldn’t be too much to ask.”

“It wasn’t! Not a cent! All right. Here you are then, but I’d just as leave make it fifty—er—what’s your name, by the way?”

“Mine’s Tucker, and his is Deering.”

“Good names, both. My friend’s name there is Loring, and mine——”

“Is Pennimore,” supplied Arnold.

“Yes, but how did you know?” asked the other in surprise.

“I’ve seen you a good many times, sir, around Yardley.”

“Oh, you’re a Yardley Hall fellow, eh? Well met, Deering! So am I. That is, I used to be. Loring’s another. Funny to meet you chaps like this. Hear that, Alf? These fellows are Yardley chaps! Or one of them is. How about you, Tucker?”

“I’m entering this year, sir.”

“Good stuff! Now listen, you fellows. You know where I live, Deering. Come and see me when you get there. I’ll be back pretty nearly as soon as you are. Bring Tucker with you. Don’t forget, eh?”

“No, thanks, I’ll be glad to,” said Arnold. “Is—is Mr. Loring the one who used to play quarterback on the team?”

“I am,” laughed Mr. Loring. “Don’t tell me that my fame still survives, Deering!”

“Yes, sir. Besides, I’ve seen your picture in the gym lots of times.”

“And you’ve been gone—how long is it, Alf? Six years, eh? That’s fame as is fame!”

“Shut up,” replied the other, laughing, “and drink this. Find another cup, Gerald, will you? Sorry we can’t offer you anything better than canned cow, fellows. Dig into those biscuits, will you? If you’re half as hungry as I am, you’re starved! I wish to goodness we had some dry clothes for you. Look here, why not get those things off and wrap a couple of blankets around you? There are towels in there and you can rub yourselves dry, you know. Great scheme! Why didn’t you think of that, Gerald? What good are you, anyway, in a crisis?”

“I don’t mind wet clothes,” answered Toby. “And it wouldn’t be much good to get dry and then put our clothes on again.”

“All right, but pull this blanket around you until you get ready to start back. It’ll keep you warm meanwhile. Have some more sugar, Deering?”

In spite of their wet garments that was a very jolly half-hour that the two boys spent in the cabin of the Sinbad. They each had two cups of really excellent coffee and as many biscuits as they could eat. And they had a fine time talking about Yardley Hall, and listening to the reminiscences of their hosts. They learned that the Sinbad belonged to Mr. Loring and that the two had spent a month cruising along the coast from Maine to Long Island without a mishap until that afternoon. It was nearly nine when they donned their oilskins again and climbed back into the Urnove. The Sinbad’s crew once more expressed their gratitude, shook hands and wished them a safe voyage, Mr. Pennimore reminding them that they were to come and see him when they got to Yardley. Then the Urnove chugged off again in the darkness, picking her way between anchored craft, and the lights on the cruiser dwindled away astern.

Arnold found plenty of bailing to do for awhile, but it didn’t keep him from talking a streak until they were out of the protection of the land and the wind drowned his voice. The return trip was far less strenuous. Free of her tow, the little launch held her head well out of water and, since the sea was following instead of charging at their bow, they kept fairly dry. It was well short of ten when, at last, the launch reached the smoother water of Greenhaven Harbor and still lacked five minutes of the hour when, tired and wet but happy, they entered Toby’s house to the great relief of his folks. Arnold had stopped at the drug store and telephoned to the Head and before they had ended their story of the rescue of the Sinbad the automobile was waiting to whisk him home. Toby went to the car with him and after Arnold had said good-night and was moving off he called to the driver.

“Wait a minute, Peter! I say, Toby, why did you ask him forty-five dollars instead of fifty? I didn’t get that any more than he did!”

“Why, because I was shy seventy dollars of enough to go to school,” answered Toby calmly. “Dad promised me twenty-five, you know, and that left forty-five. Now I’ve got enough. Good-night!”

Two days later Toby and Phebe stood on the station platform at Riverport saying good-by to Arnold. Arnold’s father had left for New York earlier in the day in the automobile, Arnold’s aunt was safely ensconced in the parlor car and Arnold himself was waving from the last platform as the bell clanged and the train slowly moved away.

“Good-by, Phebe! I’ve had a fine old time! Say good-by to your father and mother again for me. Good-by, Toby, old scout! See you in a week or so. Don’t forget to write.” Arnold had to shout now at the top of his lungs. “And don’t—forget—to come!”

“I’ll be there!” called Toby. “I’ll be there if I have to walk!”