“You never set eyes on old Skipper Jim, did you, Skipper Billy?” Docks began, later, that night. “No? Well, he was a wonderful hard man. They says the devil was abroad the night of his bornin’; but I’m thinkin’ that Jagger o’ Wayfarer’s Tickle had more t’ do with the life he lived than ever the devil could manage. ’Twas Jagger that owned the Sink or Swim; ’twas he that laid the courses—ay, that laid this last one, too. Believe me, sir,” now turning to Doctor Luke, who had uttered a sharp exclamation, “for I knowed Jagger, an’ I sailed along o’ Skipper Jim. ‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, when the trick we played was scurvy, ‘this here ain’t right.’ ‘Right?’ says he. ‘Jagger’s gone an’ laid that word by an’ forgot where he put it.’ ‘But you, Skipper Jim,’ says I, ‘you; what you doin’ this here for?’ ‘Well, Docks,’ says he, ‘Jagger,’ says he, ‘says ’tis a clever thing t’ do, an’ I’m thinkin’,’ says he, ‘that Jagger’s near right. Anyhow,’ says he, ‘Jagger’s my owner.’”

Doctor Luke put his elbows on the forecastle table, his chin on his hands—and thus gazed, immovable, at young Docks.

“Skipper Jim,” the lad went on, “was a lank old man, with a beard that used t’ put me in mind of a dead shrub on a cliff. Old, an’ tall, an’ skinny he was; an’ the flesh of his face was sort o’ wet an’ whitish, as if it had no feelin’. They wasn’t a thing in the way o’ wind or sea that Skipper Jim was afeard of. I like a brave man so well as anybody does, but I haven’t no love for a fool; an’ I’ve seed him beat out o’ safe harbour, with all canvas set, when other schooners was reefed down an’ runnin’ for shelter. Many a time I’ve took my trick at the wheel when the most I hoped for was three minutes t’ say my prayers.

“‘Skipper, sir,’ we used t’ say, when ’twas lookin’ black an’ nasty t’ win’ard an’ we was wantin’ t’ run for the handiest harbour, ‘’tis like you’ll be holdin’ on for Rocky Cove. Sure, you’ve no call t’ run for harbour from this here blow!’

“‘Stand by that mainsheet there!’ he’d yell. ‘Let her off out o’ the wind. We’ll be makin’ for Harbour Round for shelter. Holdin’ on, did you say? My dear man, they’s a whirlwind brewin’!’

“But if ’twas blowin’ hard—a nor’east snorter, with the gale raisin’ a wind-lop on the swell, an’ the night comin’ down—if ’twas blowin’ barb’rous hard, sometimes we’d get scared.

“‘Skipper,’ we couldn’t help sayin’, ‘’tis time t’ get out o’ this. Leave us run for shelter, man, for our lives!’

“‘Steady, there, at the wheel!’ he’d sing out. ‘Keep her on her course. ’Tis no more than a clever sailin’ breeze.’

“Believe me, sir,” Docks sighed, “they wasn’t a port Skipper Jim wouldn’t make, whatever the weather, if he could trade a dress or a Bible or a what-not for a quintal o’ fish. ‘Docks,’ says he, ‘Jagger,’ says he, ‘wants fish, an’ I got t’ get un.’ So it wasn’t pleasant sailin’ along o’ him in the fall o’ the year, when the wind was all in the nor’east, an’ the shore was a lee shore every night o’ the week. No, sir! ’twasn’t pleasant sailin’ along o’ Skipper Jim in the Sink or Swim. On no account, ’twasn’t pleasant! Believe me, sir, when I lets my heart feel again the fears o’ last fall, I haven’t no love left for Jim. No, sir! doin’ what he done this summer, I haven’t no love left for Jim.

“‘It’s fish me an’ Jagger wants, b‘y,’ says he t’ me, ‘an’ they’s no one’ll keep un from us.’

“‘Dear man!’ says I, pointin’ t’ the scales, ‘haven’t you got no conscience?’

“‘Conscience!’ says he. ‘What’s that? Sure,’ says he, ‘Jagger never heared that word!’

“Well, sir, as you knows, there’s been a wonderful cotch o’ fish on the Labrador side o’ the Straits this summer. An’ when Skipper Jim hears a Frenchman has brought the smallpox t’ Poor Luck Harbour, we was tradin’ the French shore o’ Newfoundland. Then he up an’ cusses the smallpox, an’ says he’ll make a v‘y’ge of it, no matter what. I’m thinkin’ ’twas all the fault o’ the cook, the skipper bein’ the contrary man he was; for the cook he says he’ve signed t’ cook the grub, an’ he’ll cook ’til he drops in his tracks, but he haven’t signed t’ take the smallpox, an’ he’ll be jiggered for a squid afore he’ll sail t’ the Labrador. ‘Smallpox!’ says the skipper. ‘Who says ’tis the smallpox? Me an’ Jagger says ’tis the chicken-pox.’ So the cook—the skipper havin’ the eyes he had—says he’ll sail t’ the Labrador all right, but he’ll see himself hanged for a mutineer afore he’ll enter Poor Luck Harbour. ‘Poor Luck Harbour, is it?’ says the skipper. ‘An’ is that where they’ve the—the—smallpox?’ says he. ‘We’ll lay a course for Poor Luck Harbour the morrow. I’ll prove ’tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it.’ So the cook—the skipper havin’ the eyes he had—says he ain’t afraid o’ no smallpox, but he knows what’ll come of it if the crew gets ashore.

“‘Ho, ho! cook,’ says the skipper. ‘You’ll go ashore along o’ me, me boy.’

“The next day we laid a course for Poor Luck Harbour, with a fair wind; an’ we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin’, sure enough, the skipper took the cook an’ the first hand ashore t’ show un a man with the chicken-pox; but I was kep’ aboard takin’ in fish, for such was the evil name the place had along o’ the smallpox that we was the only trader in the harbour, an’ had all the fish we could handle.

“‘Skipper,’ says I, when they come aboard, ‘is it the smallpox?’

“‘Docks, b‘y,’ says he, lookin’ me square in the eye, ‘you never yet heard me take back my words. I said I’d eat the man that had it. But I tells you what, b’y, I ain’t hankerin’ after a bite o’ what I seed!’

“‘We’ll be liftin’ anchor an’ gettin’ t’ sea, then,’ says I; for it made me shiver t’ hear the skipper talk that way.

“‘Docks, b‘y,’ says he, ‘we’ll be liftin’ anchor when we gets all the fish they is. Jagger,’ says he, ‘wants fish, an’ I’m the boy t’ get un. When the last one’s weighed an’ stowed, we’ll lift anchor an’ out; but not afore.’

“We was three days out from Poor Luck Harbour, tradin’ Kiddle Tickle, when Tommy Mib, the first hand, took a suddent chill. ‘Tommy, b‘y,’ says the cook, ‘you cotched cold stowin’ the jib in the squall day afore yesterday. I’ll be givin’ you a dose o’ pain-killer an’ pepper.’ So the cook give Tommy a wonderful dose o’ pain-killer an’ pepper an’ put un t’ bed. But ’twas not long afore Tommy had a pain in the back an’ a burnin’ headache. ‘Tommy, b‘y,’ says the cook, ‘you’ll be gettin’ the inflammation, I’m thinkin’. I’ll have t’ put a plaster o’ mustard an’ red pepper on your chest.’ So the cook put a wonderful large plaster o’ mustard an’ red pepper on poor Tommy’s chest, an’ told un t’ lie quiet. Then Tommy got wonderful sick—believe me, sir, wonderful sick! An’ the cook could do no more, good cook though he was.

“‘Tommy,’ says he, ‘you got something I don’t know nothin’ about.’

“’Twas about that time that we up with the anchor an’ run t’ Hollow Cove, where we heard they was a grand cotch o’ fish, all dry an’ waitin’ for the first trader t’ pick it up. They’d the smallpox there, sir, accordin’ t’ rumour; but we wasn’t afeard o’ cotchin’ it—thinkin’ we’d not cotched it at Poor Luck Harbour—an’ sailed right in t’ do the tradin’. We had the last quintal aboard at noon o’ the next day; an’ we shook out the canvas an’ laid a course t’ the nor’ard, with a fair, light wind. We was well out from shore when the skipper an’ me went down t’ the forecastle t’ have a cup o’ tea with the cook; an’ we was hard at it when Tommy Mib hung his head out of his bunk.

“‘Skipper,’ says he, in a sick sort o’ whisper, ‘I’m took.’

“‘What’s took you?’ says the skipper.

“‘Skipper,’ says he, ‘I—I’m—took.’

“‘What’s took you, you fool?’ says the skipper.

“Poor Tommy fell back in his bunk. ‘Skipper,’ he whines, ‘I’ve cotched it!’

“‘’Tis the smallpox, sir,’ says I. ‘I seed the spots.’

“‘No such nonsense!’ says the skipper. ‘’Tis the measles. That’s what he’ve got. Jagger an’ me says so.’

“‘But Jagger ain’t here,’ says I.

“‘Never you mind about that,’ says he. ‘I knows what Jagger thinks.’

“When we put into Harbour Grand we knowed it wasn’t no measles. When we dropped anchor there, sir, we knowed what ’twas. Believe me, sir, we knowed what ’twas. The cook he up an’ says he ain’t afraid o’ no smallpox, but he’ll be sunk for a coward afore he’ll go down the forecastle ladder agin. An’ the second hand he says he likes a bunk in the forecastle when he can have one comfortable, but he’ve no objection t’ the hold at times. ‘Then, lads,’ says the skipper, ‘you’ll not be meanin’ t’ look that way agin,’ says he, with a snaky little glitter in his eye. ‘An’ if you do, you’ll find a fist about the heft o’ that,’ says he, shakin’ his hand, ‘t’ kiss you at the foot o’ the ladder.’ After that the cook an’ the second hand slep’ in the hold, an’ them an’ me had a snack o’ grub at odd times in the cabin, where I had a hammock slung, though the place was wonderful crowded with goods. ’Twas the skipper that looked after Tommy Mib. ’Twas the skipper that sailed the ship, too,—drove her like he’d always done: all the time eatin’ an’ sleepin’ in the forecastle, where poor Tommy Mib lay sick o’ the smallpox. But we o’ the crew kep’ our distance when the ol’ man was on deck; an’ they was no rush for’ard t’ tend the jib an’ stays’l when it was ‘Hard a-lee!’ in a beat t’ win’ard—no rush at all. Believe me, sir, they was no rush for’ard—with Tommy Mib below.

“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, one day, ‘what is you goin’ t’ do?’

“‘Well, Docks,’ says he, ‘I’m thinkin’ I’ll go see Jagger.’

“So we beat up t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle—makin’ port in the dusk. Skipper Jim went ashore, but took nar a one of us with un. He was there a wonderful long time; an’ when he come aboard, he orders the anchor up an’ all sail made.

“‘Where you goin’?’ says I.

“‘Tradin’,’ says he.

“‘Is you?’ says I.

“‘Ay,’ says he. ‘Jagger says ’tis a wonderful season for fish.’”

Docks paused. “Skipper Billy,” he said, breaking off the narrative and fixing the impassive skipper of the Greased Lightning with an anxious eye, “did they have the smallpox at Tops’l Cove? Come now; did they?”

“Ay, sir,” Skipper Billy replied; “they had the smallpox at Tops’l Cove.”

“Dear man!” Docks repeated, “they had the smallpox at Tops’l Cove! We was three days at Tops’l Cove, with folk aboard every day, tradin’ fish. An’ Tommy Mib below! We touched Smith’s Arm next, sir. Come now, speak fair; did they have it there?”

“They’re not rid of it yet,” said Doctor Luke.

“Smith’s Arm too!” Docks groaned.

“An’ Harbour Rim,” the skipper added.

“Noon t’ noon at Harbour Rim,” said Docks.

“And Highwater Cove,” the doctor put in.

“Twenty quintal come aboard at Highwater Cove. I mind it well.”

“They been dyin’ like flies at Seldom Cove.”

“Like flies?” Docks repeated, in a hoarse whisper. “Skipper Billy, sir, who—who died—like that?”

Skipper Billy drew his hand over his mouth. “One was a kid,” he said, tugging at his moustache.

“My God!” Docks muttered. “One was a kid!”

In the pause—in the silence into which the far-off, wailing chorus of wind and sea crept unnoticed—Skipper Billy and Docks stared into each other’s eyes.

“An’ a kid died, too,” said the skipper.

Again the low, wailing chorus of wind and sea, creeping into the silence. I saw the light in Skipper Billy’s eyes sink from a flare to a glow; and I was glad of that.

“’Twas a cold, wet day, with the wind blowin’ in from the sea, when we dropped anchor at Little Harbour Deep,” Docks continued. “We always kep’ the forecastle closed tight an’ set a watch when we was in port; an’ the forecastle was tight enough that day, but the second hand, whose watch it was, had t’ help with the fish, for ’tis a poor harbour there, an’ we was in haste t’ get out. The folk was loafin’ about the deck, fore an’ aft, waitin’ turns t’ weigh fish or be served in the cabin. An’ does you know what happened?” Docks asked, tensely. “Can’t you see how ’twas? Believe me, sir, ’twas a cold, wet day, a bitter day; an’ ’tis no wonder that one o’ they folk went below t’ warm hisself at the forecastle stove—went below, where poor Tommy Mib was lyin’ sick. Skipper, sir,” said Docks, with wide eyes, leaning over the table and letting his voice drop, “I seed that man come up—come tumblin’ up like mad, sir, his face so white as paint. He’d seed Tommy Mib! An’ he yelled, sir; an’ Skipper Jim whirled about when he heard that word, an’ I seed his lips draw away from his teeth.

“‘Over the side, every man o’ you!’ sings he.

“But ’twas not the skipper’s order—’twas that man’s horrid cry that sent un over the side. They tumbled into the punts and pushed off. It made me shiver, sir, t’ see the fright they was in.

“‘Stand by t’ get out o’ this!’ says the skipper.

“’Twas haul on this an’ haul on that, an’ ’twas heave away with the anchor, ’til we was well under weigh with all canvas spread. We beat out, takin’ wonderful chances in the tickle, an’ stood off t’ the sou’east. That night, when we was well off, the cook says t’ me that he thinks he’ve nerve enough t’ be boiled in his own pot in a good cause, but he’ve no mind t’ make a Fox’s martyr of hisself for the likes o’ Skipper Jim.

“‘Cook,’ says I, ‘we’ll leave this here ship at the next port.’

“‘Docks,’ says he, ‘’tis a clever thought.’

“’Twas Skipper Jim’s trick at the wheel, an’ I loafed aft t’ have a word with un—keepin’ well t’ win’ward all the time; for he’d just come up from the forecastle.

“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, ‘we’re found out.’

“‘What’s found out?’ says he.

“‘The case o’ smallpox for’ard,’ says I. ‘What you goin’ t’ do about it?’

“‘Do!’ says he. ‘What’ll I do? Is it you, Docks, that’s askin’ me that? Well,’ says he, ‘Jagger an’ me fixed that all up when I seed him there t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle. They’s three ports above Harbour Deep, an’ I’m goin’ t’ trade un all. ’Twill be a v‘y’ge by that time. Then I’m goin’ t’ run the Sink or Swim back o’ the islands in Seal Run. Which done, I’ll wait for Tommy Mib t’ make up his mind, one way or t’ other. If he casts loose, I’ll wait, decent as you like, ’til he’s well under weigh, when I’ll ballast un well an’ heave un over. If he’s goin’ t’ bide a spell longer in this world, I’ll wait ’til he’s steady on his pins. But, whatever, go or stay, I’ll fit the schooner with a foretopmast, bark her canvas, paint her black, call her the Prodigal Son, an’ lay a course for St. Johns. They’s not a man on the docks will take the Prodigal Son, black hull, with topmast fore an’ aft an’ barked sails, inbound from the West Coast with a cargo o’ fish—not a man, sir, will take the Prodigal Son for the white, single-topmast schooner Sink or Swim, up from the Labrador, reported with a case o’ smallpox for’ard. For, look you, b‘y,’ says he, ‘nobody knows me t’ St. Johns.’

“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, ‘sure you isn’t goin’ t’ put this fish on the market!’

“‘Hut!’ says he. ‘Jagger an’ me is worryin’ about the price o’ fish already.’

“We beat about offshore for three days, with the skipper laid up in the forecastle. Now what do you make o’ that? The skipper laid up in the forecastle along o’ Tommy Mib—an’ Tommy took the way he was! Come, now, what do you make o’ that?” We shook our heads, one and all; it was plain that the skipper, too, had been stricken. “Well, sir,” Docks went on, “when Skipper Jim come up t’ give the word for Rocky Harbour, he looked like a man risin’ from the dead. ‘Take her there,’ says he, ‘an’ sing out t’ me when you’re runnin’ in.’ Then down he went agin; but, whatever, me an’ the cook an’ the second hand was willin’ enough t’ sail her t’ Rocky Harbour without un, for ’twas in our minds t’ cut an’ run in the punt when the anchor was down. ‘A scurvy trick,’ says you, ‘t’ leave old Skipper Jim an’ Tommy Mib in the forecastle, all alone—an’ Tommy took that way?’ A scurvy trick!” cried Docks, his voice aquiver. “Ay, maybe! But you ain’t been aboard no smallpox-ship. You ain’t never knowed what ’tis t’ lie in your bunk in the dark o’ long nights shiverin’ for fear you’ll be took afore mornin’. An’ maybe you hasn’t seed a man took the way Tommy Mib was took—not took quite that way.”

“Yes, I has, b’y,” said Skipper Billy, quietly. “’Twas a kid that I seed.”

“Was it, now?” Docks whispered, vacantly.

“A kid o’ ten years,” Skipper Billy replied.

“Ah, well,” said Docks, “kids dies young. Whatever,” he went on, hurriedly, “the old man come on deck when he was slippin’ up the narrows t’ the basin at Rocky Harbour.

“‘’Tis the last port I’ll trade,’ says he, ‘for I’m sick, an’ wantin’ t’ get home.’

“We was well up, with the canvas half off her, sailin’ easy, on the lookout for a berth, when a punt put out from a stage up alongshore, an’ come down with the water curlin’ from her bows.

“‘What’s the meanin’ o’ that, Docks?’ sings the skipper, pointin’ t’ the punt. ‘They’re goin’ out o’ the course t’ keep t’ win’ard.’

“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, ‘they knows us.’

“‘Sink us,’ says he, ‘they does! They knows what we is an’ what we got for’ard. Bring her to!’ he sings out t’ the man at the wheel.

“When we had the schooner up in the wind, the punt was bobbin’ in the lop off the quarter.

“‘What ship’s that?’ says the man in the bow.

“‘Sink or Swim,’ says the skipper.

“‘You get out o’ here, curse you!’ says the man. ‘We don’t want you here. They’s news o’ you in every port o’ the coast.’

“‘I’ll bide here ’til I’m ready t’ go, sink you!’ says the skipper.

“‘Oh, no, you won’t!’ says the man. ‘I’ve a gun or two that says you’ll be t’ sea agin in half an hour if the wind holds.’

“So when we was well out t’ sea agin, the cook he says t’ me that he’ve a wonderful fondness for a run ashore in a friendly port, but he’ve no mind t’ be shot for a mad dog. ‘An’ we better bide aboard,’ says the second hand; ‘for ’tis like we’ll be took for mad dogs wherever we tries t’ land.’ Down went the skipper, staggerin’ sick; an’ they wasn’t a man among us would put a head in the forecastle t’ ask for orders. So we beat about for a day or two in a foolish way; for, look you! havin’ in mind them Rocky Harbour rifles, we didn’t well know what t’ do. Three days ago it blew up black an’ frothy—a nor’east switcher, with a rippin’ wind an’ a sea o’ mountains. ’Twas no place for a short-handed schooner. Believe me, sir, ’twas no place at all! ’Twas time t’ run for harbour, come what might; so we asked the cook t’ take charge. The cook says t’ me that he’d rather be a cook than a skipper, an’ a skipper than a ship’s undertaker, but he’ve no objection t’ turn his hand t’ anything t’ ’blige a party o’ friends: which he’ll do, says he, by takin’ the schooner t’ Broad Cove o’ the Harbourless Shore, which is a bad shelter in a nor’east gale, says he, but the best he can manage.

“So we up an’ laid a course for Broad Cove; an’ they was three schooners harboured there when we run in. We anchored well outside o’ them; an’, sure, we thought the schooner was safe, for we knowed she’d ride out what was blowin’, if it took so much as a week t’ blow out. But it blowed harder—harder yet: a thick wind, squally, too, blowin’ dead on shore, where the breakers was leapin’ half-way up the cliff. By midnight the seas was smotherin’ her, fore an’ aft, an’ she was tuggin’ at her bow anchor chain like a fish at the line. Lord! many a time I thought she’d rip her nose off when a hill o’ suddy water come atop of her with a thud an’ a hiss.

“‘She’ll go ashore on them boilin’ rocks,’ says the cook.

“We was sittin’ in the cabin—the cook an’ the second hand an’ me.

“‘’Tis wonderful cold,’ says the second hand.

“‘I’m chillin’, meself,’ says the cook.

“‘Chillin’!’ thinks I, havin’ in mind the way poor Tommy Mib was took. ‘Has you a pain in your back?’ says I.

“They was shiverin’ a wonderful lot, an’ the cook was holdin’ his head in his hands, just like Tommy Mib used t’ do.

“‘Ay, b‘y,’ says he.

“‘Ay, b‘y,’ says the second hand.

“‘Been drilled too hard o’ late,’ says the cook. ‘We’re all wore out along o’ work an’ worry.’

“I didn’t wait for no more. ‘H-m-m!’ says I, ‘I thinks I’ll take a look outside.’

“It was dawn then. Lord! what a sulky dawn it was! All gray, an’ drivin’ like mad. The seas was rollin’ in, with a frothy wind-lop atop o’ them. They’d lift us, smother us, drop us, toss the schooners ridin’ in our lee, an’ go t’ smash on the big, black rocks ashore. Lord! how they pulled at the old Sink or Swim! ’Twas like as if they wanted her bad for what she done. Seems t’ me the Lord God A’mighty must ‘a’ knowed what He was about. Seems to me the Lord God A’mighty said t’ Hisself: ‘Skipper Jim,’ says He, ‘I’m through usin’ you. I’ve done all the damage I want done along o’ you. I’ve sent some o’ the wicked t’ beds they chose t’ lie on; an’ the good folk—all the good folk an’ little kids I couldn’t wait no longer for, I loved un so—I’ve took up here. Ay, Jim,’ says the Lord God A’mighty, ‘I’m through usin’ you; an’ I got t’ get rid o’ the old Sink or Swim. I’m sorry for the cook an’ the second hand an’ poor Tommy Mib,’ says He, ‘wonderful sorry; but I can’t run My world no other way. An’ when you comes t’ think it over,’ says He, ‘you’ll find ’tis the best thing that could happen t’ they, for they’re took most wonderful bad.’ Oh ay,” said Docks, with a gentle smile, “the Lord God A’mighty knowed what He was about.

“I went for’ard t’ have a look at the chain. Skipper Jim hisself was there, watchin’ it close.

“‘She’s draggin’,’ says he. But I wouldn’t ‘a’ knowed that voice for Skipper Jim’s—’twas so hollow and breathless. ‘She’s draggin’,’ says he. ‘Let her drag. They’s a better anchorage in there a bit. She’ll take the bottom agin afore she strikes them craft.’

“We was draggin’ fast—bearin’ straight down on the craft inside. They was a trader an’ two Labrador fishin’-craft. The handiest was a fishin’ boat, bound home with the summer’s cotch, an’ crowded with men, women, an’ kids. We took the bottom an’ held fast within thirty fathom of her bow. I could see the folk on deck—see un plain as I sees you—hands an’ lips an’ eyes. They was swarmin’ fore an’ aft like a lot o’ scared seal—wavin’ their arms, shakin’ their fists, jabberin’, leapin’ about in the wash o’ the seas that broke over the bows.

“‘Docks,’ says the skipper, ‘what’s the matter with they folk, anyhow? We isn’t draggin’, is we?’ says he, half cryin’. ‘We isn’t hurtin’ they, is we?’

“An old man—’tis like he was skipper o’ the craft—come runnin’ for’ard, with half a dozen young fellows in his wake. ‘Sheer off!’ sings the old one. He jabbered a bit more, all the while wavin’ us off, but a squall o’ wind carried it all away. ‘We’ll shoot you like dogs an you don’t!’ says one o’ the young ones; an’ at that I felt wonderful mean an’ wicked an’ sorry. Back aft they went. There they talked an’ talked; an’ as they talked they pointed—pointed t’ the breakers that was boilin’ over the black rocks; pointed t’ the spumey sea an’ t’ the low, ragged clouds drivin’ across it; pointed t’ the Sink or Swim. Then the skipper took the wheel, an’ the crew run for’ard t’ the windlass an’ jib sheets.

“‘Skipper, sir,’ says I, ‘they’re goin’ t’ slip anchor an’ run!’

“‘Ay,’ says Skipper Jim, ‘they knows us, b’y! They knows the Sink or Swim. We lies t’ win’ard, an’ they’re feared o’ the smallpox. They’ll risk that craft—women an’ kids an’ all—t’ get away. They isn’t a craft afloat can beat t’ sea in this here gale. They’ll founder, lad, or they’ll drive on the rocks an’ loss themselves, all hands. ’Tis an evil day for this poor old schooner, Docks,’ says he, with a sob, ‘that men’ll risk the lives o’ kids an’ women t’ get away from her; an’ ’tis an evil day for my crew.’ With that he climbed on the rail, cotched the foremast shrouds with one hand, put the other to his mouth, an’ sung out: ‘Ahoy, you! Bide where you is! Bide where you is!’ Then he jumped down; an’ he says t’ me, ’tween gasps, for the leap an’ shout had taken all the breath out of un, ‘Docks,’ says he, ‘they’s only one thing for a man t’ do in a case like this. Get the jib up, b’y. I’m goin’ aft t’ the wheel. Let the anchor chain run out when you sees me wave my hand. See, lad,’ says he, pointin’ t’ leeward, ‘they’re waitin’, aboard that fishin’ craft, t’ see what we’ll do. We’ll show un that we’re men! Jagger be damned,’ says he; ‘we’ll show un that we’re men! Call the hands,’ says he; ‘but leave Tommy Mib lie quiet in his bunk,’ says he, ‘for he’s dead.’

“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, lookin’ in his blood-red eyes, an’ then t’ the breakers, ‘what you goin’ t’ do?’

“‘Beach her,’ says he.

“‘Is you gone an’ forgot,’ says I, ‘about Jagger?’

“‘Never you mind about Jagger, Docks,’ says he. ‘I’ll see him,’ says he, ‘later. Call the hands,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll wreck her like men!’”

Docks covered his face with his hands. Place was once more given to the noises of the gale. He looked up—broken, listless; possessed again by the mood of that time.

“An’ what did you say, lad?” Skipper Billy whispered.

“I hadn’t no objection,” sighed the lad.

The answer was sufficient.

“So I called the hands,” Docks went on. “An’ when the second hand cotched sight o’ the rocks we was bound for, he went mad, an’ tumbled over the taffrail; an’ the cook was so weak a lurch o’ the ship flung him after the second hand afore we reached the breakers. I never seed Skipper Jim no more; nor the cook, nor the second hand, nor poor Tommy Mib. But I’m glad the Lord God A’mighty give Jim the chance t’ die right, though he’d lived wrong. Oh, ay! I’m fair glad the good Lord done that. The Labradormen give us a cheer when the chain went rattlin’ over an’ the Sink or Swim gathered way—a cheer, sir, that beat its way agin the wind—God bless them!—an’ made me feel that in the end I was a man agin. She went t’ pieces when she struck,” he added, as if in afterthought; “but I’m something of a hand at swimmin’, an’ I got ashore on a bit o’ spar. An’ then I come down the coast ’til I found you lyin’ here in the lee o’ Saul’s Island.” After a pause, he said hoarsely, to Skipper Billy: “They had the smallpox at Tops’l Cove, says you? They got it yet at Smith’s Arm? At Harbour Rim an’ Highwater Cove they been dyin’? How did they die at Seldom Cove? Like flies, says you? An’ one was a kid?”

“My kid,” said Skipper Billy, quietly still.

“My God!” cried Docks. “His kid! How does that there song go? What about they lakes o’ fire? Wasn’t it,

“‘They’s lakes o’ fire in hell t’ sail for such as Skipper Jim!’

you sung? Lord! sir, I’m thinkin’ I’ll have t’ ship along o’ Skipper Jim once more!“

“No, no, lad!” cried Skipper Billy, speaking from the heart. “For you was willin’ t’ die right. But God help Jagger on the mornin’ o’ the Judgment Day! I’ll be waitin’ at the foot o’ the throne o’ God t’ charge un with the death o’ my wee kid!”

Doctor Luke sat there frowning.