Joak McGlashan’s troubles started when the Starbuck crossed 45° south. The pleasant zephyrs of the Trades were a memory of the past; the gentle undulations of the fine weather latitudes which hove the schooner gently along their swelling bosoms gave place to long rollers, which had the vessel sliding down their declivities and almost standing on her bowsprit, and then climbing up a watery hill with her long toothpick looking for the Southern Cross.

Joak had to work around his stove during this ocean fandango; he had to cook and prepare meals with his galley floor sliding and sloping under him at angles which called for gimballed joints and adhesive feet. When they swung into the “Roaring Forties” the skipper had given Joak a warning of what was to come. “Mouse your pots an’ kettles, cook, the Starbuck’s bound to the east’ard!” he said with a grin. “See all yer cut glass an’ silver well stowed, chocked up, tommed off, an’ shored, for she’ll do some queer prancing from now on!”

“Aye, captain,” returned Joak ruefully. “She’s beginnin’ tae jump aboot, but let me tell ye, ef ye want guid bread ye’ll hae tae rin her steadier fur I canna get ma dough tae rise wi’ th’ shup jugglin’ about like a jumpin’-jack!” And with this dire remark he grabbed at a sliding pot and chocked it off on top of the stove with a rolling rod.

The fiddles were shipped on the fo’c’sle table, and a minimum of dishes were placed upon it at a time. The men ate with their mugs of tea or coffee in their hands, and with a protective arm around their plates, for Helen was beginning to dance. On deck, everything was double-lashed for heavy weather; the foretopmast had been sent down, and the balloon jib and foretopsail rolled up and stowed away in the sail locker. Under winter rig of four lowers the schooner was swinging into the long rollers of the “Forties” and getting ready for her “easting.”

The cold weather came upon them quickly, and Donald donned his winter clothes and saw to boots, mittens, socks, and oil-skins. Though it was supposed to be summer time down south, yet it was bitterly cold and the only tangible evidence of the season was the long daylight—the duration of darkness being but four hours, as the sun was south of the Line. The blue color of the middle-latitude seas had changed to a chill grey-green, and as they made their southing the wind hauled more westerly and blew hard with a vigor and intensity which reminded Donald of other days in this part of the world. At times they glimpsed on the far horizon great islands of dazzling white—outriders of the Antarctic ice, lofty, immense in area, and dangerous in calms and thick weather.

With the single-reefed mainsail boomed over the quarter, whole fores’l, jumbo and jib, the Helen Starbuck commenced to show her heels in the windy latitudes south of fifty. Twelve knots, thirteen knots, fourteen knots were common hourly readings in the gusts, and Nickerson would grunt with satisfaction when he picked off noon to noon runs of three hundred sea miles. Rare travelling, surely! And he would pace the weather alley glancing at sail and sheet to scent a job for the watch in jigging-up slack canvas or yanking a boom inboard. Occasional snow flurries came down the wind and it was bitter on deck o’ nights, but there was always a warm bunk in a warm cabin or fo’c’sle to turn into; good eatable grub at meal times, and a “mug up” of hot coffee or a bite of soft bread or pie for a man to warm his blood with during, or after, a chilly watch.

Then came the day, when, steering east by south, they started to “run their easting down.” They were south of Cape Piller and had got into the swing of the tremendous sea which sweeps around the world in that latitude. The western wind blew hard and strong and Nickerson had the mainsail stowed, the big main boom in the crotch well secured by the crotch-tackles, chain guys and topping-lift, the jib furled and triced up on the fore-stay to keep it from freezing on to the bowsprit, and the jumbo was in the stops.

Under the whole foresail and the squaresail, they were running her before it—a job for nervy men—and the great rollers of the Southern Ocean were piling up in vast battalions, crowned with acres of seething, roaring foam, and almost half a mile from crest to crest. In these mighty undulations, the Helen Starbuck was storming along with the wind whistling in her rigging and a bawling welter of white water sheering away from her sharp bows.

Joak, imprisoned in the fo’c’sle, was endeavouring to cook under conditions which rendered culinary work a herculean task. It was one hand for himself and one for the ship, and he hung between sink and stove doing his best and feeling half sick with the heat of his battened-down fo’c’sle, and the violent swoops and leaps of the ship. Aft in the cabin the watch below slept in the spare bunks so as to be handy for a sudden call. Two men steered, lashed to the wheel-box, and Nickerson stood, muffled to the eyes, in oil-skins and sea-boots, on top of the cabin house with an arm thrust through a stop of the furled mainsail. He was constantly on deck watching ship and sea, looking out for ice, and, ever and anon, grunting advice to the wheelsmen. Steering a running ship in such a sea called for vigilance and skill. Once let her broach-to amid those Cape Horn grey-beards, and she would be gone—rolled over and smashed into kindling in the twinkling of an eye.

Up, up, up, the slopes of these frightful hills of brine she would climb—poise for a moment amidst the roaring white water of the crests with her keel showing clear to the foremast—and then, with a wild swoop, her bows would drive down the fore-front of the comber into the trough with the creaming surge-tops growling, roaring and curling above and behind her. Many times they piled up astern—walls of grey-green water full thirty feet above their heads—and when almost under their toppling crests, the brave little vessel would leap forward and the giant comber would plunge over and break on each quarter in a thundering broil of foam which drowned all other sounds.

The two Norwegians and Donald were the only hands who would steer the schooner running in this sea. Thompson and Jenkins refused to tackle the wheel, and Nickerson would not insist. Good steersmen are born, not made, and only men who had an instinctive knowledge of a vessel’s ways, who could forecast what she would do a few seconds after, were able to twirl the spokes to correct that little swing which might lead to broaching and disaster. Most seamen can steer a good trick by compass or by the wind in a moderate breeze, but it takes a master-helmsman to steer running before a gale and a giant sea. The Norwegians inherited their steersmanship through centuries of Viking ancestry; McKenzie, through quick wit, sensitiveness and steady nerve.

The wonderful seaworthiness of the schooner was fully apparent during that storming to the east’ard. She was as buoyant as a cork and no heavy water struck her decks. Sprays would slop in over the waist or over the bows when she over-ran a sea, but the quarters were dry and never a dollop came over the taff-rail. “Ef ye were in the Kelvinhaugh naow,” remarked the skipper, “I’d hate to think o’ what she’d be doing. I cal’late she’d be pooped in this a dozen times in a watch and her main deck ’ud be full to the rail with them greybeards overtaking her.”

They wolfed their food in the fo’c’sle, mug and food in hand, and they had to watch their chance to jump below without bringing an unwelcome sea down the half-opened hatch. Joak did his best to cook something, but after many disasters, he confined his efforts to tea and coffee, biscuits and soup, and the others did not grumble but praised him for his efforts.

“This ain’t nawthin’,” remarked the skipper with a grin. “I’ve seen it ten times worse’n this daown here. I recollect once bein’ two weeks in the hollow o’ one sea an’ when we came up on the crest of it we c’d look daown the chimneys in China, by Godfrey!”

It was dangerous going, and the skipper fully appreciated it. He was anxious, and when the black squalls of rain and sleet came driving down upon them, he watched the straining sails and spars with eyes of concern. It was now that the sailorizing of the Trade latitudes would be put to the test. A drawn splice, a slip-shod mousing, a stranded rope or a broken shackle ... and disaster might follow swiftly. He spent his time between his cabin-roof look-out and the vicinity of the foremast scanning the over-taxed gear. When the squalls came driving down, he was doubly concerned.

West of the Ramirez in the grey dawn, the gale stiffened into a wind which her sail could not stand. A violent gust carried the squaresail away and it flew down the wind like a snowflake. The schooner was trembling under the weight of the whole foresail and the mast threatened to go by the board. Nickerson called all hands, cook as well, and said: “We’ve got to reef that fores’l and reef it running as we can’t come to the wind in this sea. Donald will take the wheel, and the rest of us will tackle the sail.” And to Donald he said in words pregnant with meaning, “Son, you want to steer as you never steered before. Watch her like a hawk and give her jest th’ least little shake so’s we kin git that fores’l daown a bit ... and don’t let her lose way or come up!”

Donald took the spokes and the others went for’ard along the swaying, sloshing decks. A terrible sea was running and the air was white with driving sleet, while the wind screamed in the shrouds and plastered the naked main-mast with wet snow.

The six men for’ard cast off the halliards and four had hold of the gaff-downhaul. “Shake her a mite, son!” roared Nickerson in the teeth of the wind. Donald glanced astern at the sea, then eased the wheel down gently—watching the sail anxiously and murmuring a heartfelt prayer. The schooner tore along, yawing and plunging, but she started to come up with the turn of her rudder and Donald met her with unerring instinct. The vessel swung around in the trough, the sail commenced to flutter, and the men hauled the gaff down with lurid deep-water oaths and yells of encouragement. “Swing her off! Swing her off!” bawled Nickerson, fearfully eyeing a big greybeard which was racing down on them, but McKenzie had acted ere he sung out.

With the fore-gaff held fast by the down-haul, and the reef cringle on the leach sweated down to the boom by a tackle, the sail bellied out like a balloon in the squalls, and as the schooner raced off before the wind again the six men and boys started to get the tack of the sail down to the goose-neck of the fore-boom. They tugged and hauled with numb fingers, but the sail was iron-hard and full and refused to “light up.” “It ’ud take a whole fishing gang o’ twenty men to reef that fores’l naow!” panted the skipper. “We’ll hev to shoot her up again to git that tack-earring passed.” He clawed his way aft to the wheel.

“Ye’ll hev to shake her again, son,” he shouted. “Be damned careful, naow, an’ don’t let her lose way or git tripped up.”

Watching his chance, Donald eased the helm down and yelled, “Now!” The sail flapped and jerked at the restraining sheet and down-haul while Nickerson and the gang hove down the tack-cringle with tugs and oaths. The schooner was sidling along in a momentary lull in the squalls with way upon her, when Donald saw the shadow of a big sea before him. He flashed a look astern; saw it piling up with a crest of foam, roaring and seething, and he screamed, “Look out, ahead!” and clawed the helm up as it thundered over the taff-rail and engulfed him in tons of chilly brine.

The water tore at his lashing and he hung to the wheel with his arms thrust through the spokes. While under water he instinctively shouldered the wheel up a bit to prevent a gybe; there was a roaring as of Niagara in his ears; red lights danced before his eyes; his lungs filled to bursting, while his strained muscles pained fearfully. Then his eyes glimpsed the daylight, and he straightened up off the wheel-box with a dull pain in his left side, while the gallant little vessel lifted ahead and rolled the water off her decks over both rails.

“All right, nipper?” came a voice from for’ard.

“Aye, all right!” he gasped faintly, steadying the schooner in a violent yaw. Dazed and panting for breath, he stood hanging on to the spokes and steering by instinct. They had got the fores’l tack tied down and were tying the reef-points. In a few minutes the sail was reefed, the down-haul cast off, and the gaff hoisted up again. Then they trooped aft, clawing their way along the slushy decks.

“Yer face is all over blood!” cried the skipper staring at Donald. “Did that sea hurt ye?”

The boy wiped the blood away from a wound in his forehead where his head had struck the handholds of the wheel-spokes. “That’s nothing, sir,” he replied. “I, couldn’t help letting that sea come aboard ... it caught us as she was coming to in the trough.”

“Of course you couldn’t help it,” said the other. “You did blame’ fine! You must ha’ swung her off an’ steadied her while that comber had you under. From for’ard, there was nawthin’ to be seen aft here but th’ main-boom stickin’ aout! Waal, she’s all right naow. Under that rag of a fores’l she’ll run like a hound. Ain’t there th’ hell of a sea runnin’ though? A square-rigger ’ud be sloshin’ through this under a fore-lower-tops’l—” He stopped and pointed at the smother down to starboard. “Look!” he shouted. “There’s a poor devil of an outward-bounder! See him? Hove to!”

The Starbuck’s crew stared in the direction indicated and glimpsed in the lift of the sleet squalls a big grey-painted barque lying under a mizzen stays’l and a goose-winged lower maintops’l with the lee clew hauled out. “Poor devils ... beatin’ to the west’ard off th’ pitch o’ th’ Horn ... sooner be on this hooker, captain!” shouted Thompson, and his remarks seemed strange when one made comparisons between the big wall-sided barque with her spacious decks and human complement of twenty-five or thirty men, and the little 95-ton Helen Starbuck and her seven hands all told. But Thompson was learning that size did not mean seaworthiness or even comfort, and an able little schooner of Bank fisherman model was to be preferred to a huge steel box like the Kelvinhaugh for ocean ranging.

The pain in McKenzie’s side was beginning to make him wince when a kick of the wheel jarred his body, and the skipper noticed it. He came close to the lad and shouted in order to be heard above the noise of wind and sea, “Hurt anywhere?”

The boy nodded and grinned stoically. “Think I’ve bust a ‘slat,’ sir!”—using West Coast slang. “Got hove down on wheel ... left side ... when sea hit her that time.” Nickerson shoved back the hatch. “Olsen! Relieve the wheel!” And when he came up he motioned to Donald to go down into the cabin.

When McKenzie was divested of his upper clothing, examination revealed an ugly bruise just below the heart. With Thompson and Chubby holding the boy from sliding off the locker, the skipper examined the spot, tenderly feeling the bruise with his fingers. “You sure have, son!” he murmured. “Two slats are sprung, me son! Waal, can’t be helped, but ye’ll do no deck work or steering for a spell, boy. You’ve done yer trick, anyway, so we’ll doctor ye up without kickin’!” And he first proceeded to doctor Donald by giving him a stiff dose of salts!

“Ugh!” protested McKenzie after he had swallowed the nauseous dose. “Is this a sailor’s cure-all? If a man breaks a leg or a rib, why should he be dosed with this muck?”

Nickerson laughed. “It may seem unnecessary, but it ain’t, for the salts will put your system into a condition which will help the bones to knit. There’s good medical logic in that, son!” Dosed, rubbed with liniment and bandaged, Donald was shored by pillows and rolled up blankets into a cabin bunk and ordered to remain there for the rest of the day.

“Durned plucky kid!” remarked the skipper to Thompson.

“Always was,” answered the other. “Game to the core! Good stuff in him! Always plays cricket!” An odd British Public School expression, the latter. Fulsome praise, truly, from two such men—English and Canadian master-seamen!

Flying along on the wings of the wind the Helen Starbuck made brave running of it under the reefed foresail, and when Nickerson managed to get a noon sight in spite of successive squalls and sliding decks, he figured out the ship’s position and remarked gleefully to Donald, “She’s run ahead of the log, son! We’ll haul her up this afternoon. Cape Stiff’ll be in sight off the port bow in a while. She’s run sixty miles in four hours—good travelling! Thought I sighted the Ramirez rocks at eight this morning ... to th’ norrad. Old Man Horn should be loomin’ up from th’ riggin’ naow ef it’s anyways clear inshore.” Cape Horn in sight! The storied Stormy Horn—locale of a thousand epics of the sea since Schouten and Drake braved its tempestuous corner. “’Round Cape Horn!” A sailor’s boast—conferring a brevet rank on the man who had gone through the mill off Cape Stiff! Donald’s imagination thrilled at the thought of viewing the wind-and-wave-beaten milestone at the foot of the world. “I’d like to see it, sir,” he pleaded. “Call me when it is sighted, please!”

Nickerson laughed. “Waal, son, ye’re more eager than I am. I wouldn’t care a cuss ef I never saw it. Ef it was old Cape Sable or Nigger Cape or Sambro or Eastville Heads, naow! Why, I’d jump to the spreaders for a squint, but Cape Stiff? Ugh!” And he spat disgustedly. He buttoned up his oilcoat and clambered on deck, and a minute or two later Donald could hear his voice. “Aye ... to th’ norrad ... high peak with smaller ones. See it? Aye ... alright.” The companion hatch was shoved back and Donald was out of his bunk and pulling on his boots when the captain came down. “Hell’s main hatch is in sight,” he cried with a laugh. “Where they brew the gales and sailor’s misery.... Lemme help ye with yer coat. It ain’t rainin’ naow an’ th’ sun’s aout. I’ll bowse ye up on th’ cabin roof.”

About eight miles distant, the Ultima Thule of the South American continent reared its hoary head—a pinnacle of weather-worn granite, which, with the lower hills of Horn Island and the land behind, made the whole appear like a crouching lion facing the west. It stood clearly defined for a space—blue against the rain and mist behind and dull red where its northern slopes caught the sun—a monument of strenuous endeavour; a monolithic memorial to seamen’s a courage and suffering, and the bones of ships and men in the waters below. Around its splintered base the mighty combers of a world-around wind-hounding smashed themselves in acres of foam, roaring and hissing in sullen fury at the implacability of the rock which forever bars their passage. Tremendous! Inspiring! Irresistible! The storied, stormy Horn!

A moment later it was blotted out by a snarling snow squall just as though the God of those seas had rung down the curtain on a sight not given to every sailor’s eyes. Donald was assisted to his bunk again. He had seen the Horn and his romance-hunger was satisfied.

When Horn Island had swung to the port quarter, Captain Nickerson called the hands. “We’ll gybe that fores’l over naow and make our northing. Hook the boom-tackle into that fore-boom and ease her over, and look out in case she ships a sea!” The relieving tackle was hooked on to ease the fore-sheet when the boom came over, and Hansen was instructed to put the helm up. The vessel swung to the nor’rad, the fores’l gave a mighty flap, and with a “whish!” and a “crash!” and the screech of the tackle-rope whirring through the blocks, the sail swooped over and brought up on the patent gybing gear with a jarring shock. “Let ’er go nothe-east by east!” cried the skipper. “We’ll run her through the LeMaire Straits an’ dodge this sea. I cal’late the rips o’ the Pacific drift and the Patagonia current ain’t agoin’ to bother us much in there ... we’ll try it. Can’t be worse’n the Bay o’ Fundy ’round Brier Island.”

They negotiated the Strait without difficulty—sighting the high cliffs of Staten Island and Terra del Fuego in their passage through the treacherous channel, and after leaving the sterile, snow-capped highlands of Cape San Diego astern, they swung off shore again, and ran over by the West Falklands and up the South American coast.

Back into warmer climes, they busied themselves overhauling the schooner’s rigging after the strain of the easting run, and on the morning of a fine summer’s day they struck soundings in the muddy estuary of the River Plate. Under all sail with the wind blowing down the river, they snored through the muddy water and picked up the English Bank light-ship. Four hours later, they stood in and dropped head-sails and anchor in the outer roadstead of Monte Video.

Reporting at the Customs House that they only came in for water, wood and supplies, they procured these necessities and spent a couple of days seeing the sights of the beautiful Uruguayan city. Donald sent off a long letter to his mother telling her of the voyage so far and his future prospects. Before sunrise one morning, the Helen Starbuck slipped away on the last leg of her long, long trail.

The voyage up the South Atlantic, over the Line, and into the North Atlantic was practically a repetition of their Pacific passage, and with much the same daily round of duties. It was not all plain sailing. They experienced several blows, and some they had to ride out hove-to under foresail and jumbo. The worst of these was near home, between La Have and Western Bank, and here, for the first time, Donald saw numerous Bank fishing schooners lying-to like themselves.

“Son, these are fishermen!” cried Nickerson, pointing to six or eight vessels riding out the blow around them. “They’re hanging on to the ground until it moderates. Ef they had a full trip below, they’d be hoofin’ it for Boston or Gloucester under all she’d stand. It takes a breeze o’ wind to stop those fellers—they’re sail-draggers from ’way-back. You’ll see some joker giving her ‘main-sheet’ for home in a while.”

In a blurry easterly squall of sleet that night, Donald saw one of them “giving her main-sheet” for home. She stormed out of the smother—a long, lean schooner under reefed mainsail, whole foresail and jumbo, and she flew ahead of the Starbuck on the wings of the wind—riding over the seas like a duck, with the main-boom over the quarter and well topped up to keep it clear of the wave-crests when she rolled to loo’ard. There was something inspiring in the manner in which she raced out of the gloom—a ghostly vessel literally bounding over the seas. A pile of dories were nested on her deck amidships, and as she swung past, someone hailed, “Hi-yi! haow’s fishin’?”

Nickerson chuckled delightedly. “Naow, there’s a hound!” he remarked. “Swinging off for Boston or Gloucester with a hundred thousand o’ cod and haddock below. Dory-handliner, by the looks o’ her. Her gang will be below playing cards or mugging-up or snoozing, and only two on deck seeing her home! These fellers are sailors, my son! Winter and summer, they’re sloggin’ in and aout, and nawthin’ bothers them. I’d sooner be skipper of that hooker than commander of the Teutonic! I’d have more fun and I’d make more money.”

When the Starbuck got under way again under reefed canvas, fishing schooners passed her bound west under their whole four lowers. Sometimes two vessels would come driving up out of the snow squalls—racing for port with sheets flat aft and the lee rail under in a broil of white water, and a mob of oilskinned men lounging around the quarters of the respective ships watching the going and betting on the outcome. Beautiful schooners they were, and Donald could not believe that such yacht-like craft were employed in the humble pursuits of fishing.

“There’s hundreds of these craft on this coast,” remarked Captain Nickerson, “and they’re all fine-lined, able vessels. They’re built to sail fast and they’re rigged an’ sparred to stand the drag. They draw a lot of water aft and they carry a pile of iron and stone ballast. That’s why they can sail an’ make a passage while we’re lying-to. Even in this able packet, we wouldn’t dare to try to sail by the wind like those jokers in that snifter.”

Donald was profoundly impressed and he began to regard casting his lot with the North American Bank fishermen as something to be desired—a phase of seafaring with remunerative and romantic attractions, and when he saw more of them, crossing the southern edge of Western Bank, the spell of this adventurous, daring, sailorly life began to get a hold on his imagination, and he made up his mind to give it a trial. Incidents, related by Nickerson, of the camaraderie among the crews, their superb seamanship, and the good living aboard their vessels also influenced his decision to experience these things himself.

On a bright winter’s morning when the sea, ruffled by a moderate westerly breeze, rolled blue under a clear, cloudless sky, to the horizon, the skipper pointed over the port bow. “Old Nova Scotia’s showin’ up naow!” he said with a grin. “Ye’ll see the rocks and spruce in a while, and if it holds like this, we’ll drop the killick in Halifax to-day. We’re running in to the shores of God’s Country—Nova Scotia!” He uttered the last sentence with unusual feeling in his voice.... Judson Nickerson—hard-case blue-waterman, world ranger, and a perfect seaman—was glad to be nearing home after many years.

The faint haze on the horizon ahead defined itself, as they drew near, into wooded hills—green with spruce and coniferous trees—and patched, here and there with snow which gleamed dazzling white in the sunshine. A depression in the land, over which smoke could be discerned, marked the City of Halifax, and, ahead of them an Atlantic liner was standing in for the port.

Captain Nickerson was pacing up and down the quarter, smoking and talking to the runaway apprentices, and Thompson lounging aft. “You two chaps”—meaning Thompson and Jenkins—“will have no trouble in getting a ship for England here. You can either go as a passenger or ship as quarter-master or ’fore-the-mast. It’s only a ten-day jump across the pond and a mere hoot-in-hell to the fifteen thousand mile we’ve traversed in this hooker. There’s Chebucto Head to port an’ Devil’s Island to starb’d ... we’re gettin’ inside the harbor naow ... due north by compass takes her right up.” And he chatted and joked with the boys in buoyant spirits at getting home—a vastly different Nickerson from the bawling, truculent wind-jammer officer of other days.

Slipping along in smooth water, they found themselves once more encompassed by green earth and human habitation, and it was good to look upon by eyes wearied by countless leagues of restless sea. Herring Cove, with its fishermen’s cottages nestling among the winter greenery, slipped past to port, and the village looked snug and homey and “landish” to these world sailors. Thrumcap, Maugher’s Beach, and McNab Island glided by, and they lowered the stays’l for the last time as they ran through the passage of George Island at the neck of the harbor. The fair city of Halifax burst upon their vision then—row upon row of houses rising from the wharves and warehouses of Water Street to the Citadel Hill, which overlooked the eastern outpost to the Dominion which the Helen Starbuck had run the length of two oceans to span from west to east. Victoria to Halifax! A long traverse truly for a small schooner around the Horn, and when they let the headsails run and dropped the anchor behind George Island, Captain Nickerson smacked his fist on the wheel-box and laughed. “Victoria to Halifax raound Cape Stiff in a hundred an’ twenty days! Not too bad for a little hooker—not too bad! With a little more ballast and a couple more hands to fist sail in a breeze, we’d ha’ done it in a hundred! But, it was a fair sail ... a fair sail!”

Donald and Thompson pulled the skipper ashore, and loafed for an hour on Water Street. The paving stones felt hard to their feet after months of a vessel’s decks, and they kept their body muscles instinctively keyed up to meet the lurch and sway which did not come. “Looks something like an Old Country town,” said Thompson, after they had strolled around a bit. “Let’s get a newspaper an’ see what’s happened since we left. Chubby will want to know if there’s been anything doing in soccer.”

Captain Nickerson joined them after a while. “We’re to leave the schooner where she is,” he said. “The new owners will tow her in to their own wharf to-morrow. We’ll strike our flag and pay off in the morning.”

By the next day afternoon, they had their dunnage out of the Helen Starbuck and Donald cast a regretful glance at the wonderful little vessel in which they worked such a long, watery traverse. As he gazed at her lying quiet and still behind the Island, he thought of those wild and windy days “running the easting”; of Cape Horn and the Le-Maire Straits, the wild seas and the scorching calms “down to the south’ard!” Aye! these were romantic days—days he would never forget, and as he clambered up on the wharf, he waved an adieu to the anchored schooner. “Good-bye and good luck!” he murmured. “You’re a brave and gallant little ship—Helen Starbuck!”

The little band of adventurers parted company shortly afterwards—Olsen and Hansen to a boarding house where they would meet others of their kind, and Chubby and Thompson to try their luck at getting over to Liverpool by working their way, or as steerage passengers.

“So-long, nipper!” said Thompson to Donald. “Good luck to you in future. We’ll maybe meet again some day!” Chubby wrung Donald’s hand but said nothing. His heart was too full for words. “So long, Chubby!” said McKenzie. “Try and make Uncle give you your premium back, but don’t say that I’m alive. So long!”

Joak McGlashan remained with Captain Nickerson and Donald. He would stay a while and try his hand “cookin’ at the fushin’” before going home, and he, like Donald, would sail in the wake of the redoubtable Judson Nickerson, and see where that worthy would lead them.