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Bound out, in the morning, Long Tom Lane had fetched his rodney through the lanes. By luck and good conduct he had managed to get the wee boat a fairish way out. He had beached her, there on the floe–a big pan, close by a hummock which he marked with care. And ’twas for Tom Lane’s little rodney that the seven last men of Gingerbread Cove was jumping. With her afloat–and the pack loosening in-shore under the wind–they could make harbor well enough afore the gale worked up the water in the lee of the Gingerbread hills. But she was a mean, small boat. There was room for six, with safety–but room for no more; no room for seven. ‘Twas a nasty mess, to be sure. You couldn’t expect nothing else. But there wasn’t no panic. Gingerbread men was accustomed to tight places. And they took this one easy. Them that got there first launched the boat and stepped in. No fight; no fuss.

It just happened to be Eleazer Butt that was left. ‘Twas Eleazer’s ill-luck. And Eleazer was up in years, and had fell behind coming over the ice.

“No room for me?” says he.

‘Twas sure death to be left on the ice. The wind begun to taste of frost. And ’twas jumping up. ‘Twould carry the floe far and scatter it broadcast.

“See for yourself, lad,” says Tom.

“Pshaw!” says Eleazer. “That’s too bad!”

“You isn’t no sorrier than me, b’y.”

Eleazer tweaked his beard. “Dang it!” says he. “I wisht there was room. I’m hungry for my supper.”

“Let un in,” says one of the lads. “‘Tis even chances she’ll float it out.”

“Well,” says Eleazer, “I doesn’t want t’ make no trouble—-“

“Come aboard,” says Tom. “An’ make haste.”

“If she makes bad weather,” says Eleazer, “I’ll get out.”

They pushed off from the pan. ‘Twas falling dusk, by this time. The wind blowed black. The frost begun to bite. Snow came thick–just as if, ecod, somebody up aloft was shaking the clouds, like bags, in the gale! And the rodney was deep and ticklish; had the ice not kept the water flat in the lanes and pools, either Eleazer would have had to get out, as he promised, or she would have swamped like a cup. As it was, handled like dynamite, she done well enough; and she might have made harbor within the hour had she not been hailed by Pinch-a-Penny Peter from a small pan of ice midway between.

And there the old codger was squatting, his old face pinched and woebegone, his bag o’ bones wrapped up in his coonskin coat, his pan near flush with the sea, with little black waves already beginning to wash over it.

A sad sight, believe me! Poor old Pinch-a-Penny, bound out to sea without hope on a wee pan of ice!

“Got any room for me?” says he.

They ranged alongside. “Mercy o’ God!” says Tom; “she’s too deep as it is.”

“Ay,” says Peter; “you isn’t got room for no more. She’d sink if I put foot in her.”

“Us’ll come back,” says Tom.

“No use, Tom,” says Peter. “You knows that well enough. ‘Tis no place out here for a Gingerbread punt. Afore you could get t’ shore an’ back night will be down an’ this here gale will be a blizzard. You’d never be able t’ find me.”

“I ‘low not,” says Tom.

“Oh, no,” says Peter. “No use, b’y.”

“Damme, Skipper Peter,” says Tom, “I’m sorry!”

“Ay,” says Peter; “’tis a sad death for an ol’ man–squattin’ out here all alone on the ice an’ shiverin’ with the cold until he shakes his poor damned soul out.”

“Not damned!” cries Tom. “Oh, don’t say it!”

“Ah, well!” says Peter; “sittin’ here all alone, I been thinkin’.”

“‘Tisn’t by any man’s wish that you’re here, poor man!” says Tom.

“Oh, no,” says Peter. “No blame t’ nobody. My time’s come. That’s all. But I wisht I had a seat in your rodney, Tom.”

And then Tom chuckled.