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“‘Blow?’ says he. ‘Ay; she’s breedin’ a naughty nor’west gale o’ wind down there.’

“It seemed t’ me then I seed a shadow in the fog; an’, ‘Cap’n Sammy,’ says I, ‘what’s that off the port bow?’

“‘What’s what?’ says he.

“‘That patch o’ black in the mist.’

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you might tweak the toot-rope.’

“The Royal Bloodhound hadn’t opened her mouth afore there came a howl from the mist.

“Cap’n Sammy jumped. ‘What d’ye make o’ that?’ says he.

“‘I make a ship,’ says I.

“He lifted his hand. ‘Hark!’ says he.

“Whatever she was, she was yellin’ for help like a bull in a bog.

“‘Whoo-o-o-oo! Whoo, whoo! Whoo-o-oo- ugh !’

“Cap’n Sammy grinned. ‘I make a tramp cotched fast in the ice,’ says he.

“‘Whoo-o-oo- ugh ! Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo-o- oop !’

“‘I make a tramp,’ says he, rubbin’ his hands, ‘with her propeller ripped off.’

“I reached a hand for the rope.

“‘Hol’ on!’ says he; ‘you keep your hook off that there whistle.’

“‘I was thinkin’,’ says I, ‘t’ speed a message o’ comfort.’

“‘Let her beller a bit, ye dunderhead!’ says he.

“‘What for?’ says I.

“‘T’ make sure in her own mind,’ says he, ‘that she needs a kindly hand t’ help her.’

“‘Twould be easy enough for the steam-swiler Royal Bloodhound t’ jerk that yelpin’ tramp, had she lost her propeller–as well she might, poor helpless lady o’ fashion! in that slob-ice–‘twould be easy enough t’ rip her through a league o’ the floe t’ open water, with a charge or two o’ good black powder t’ help.

“‘Tumm,’ says Cap’n Sammy, by an’ by, ‘how’s the glass?’

“‘She’ve the look an’ conduct o’ the devil, sir.’

“‘Good!’ says he. ‘I hopes she kicks the bottom out. You might go so far as t’ give that bellerin’ ironclad a toot.’

“I tooted.

“‘You come along o’ me, Tumm,’ says he, ‘an’ learn how t’ squeeze a lemon.’

“Cap’n Sammy kep’ explodin’ in little chuckles, like a bunch o’ Queen’s-birthday firecrackers, as we trudged the ice toward the howlin’ ship in the mist. ‘Twas a hundred fathoms o’ rough goin’, I promise you, that northern slob, in which the tramp an’ the Royal Bloodhound lay neighbors; an’ ’twas mixed with hummocks an’ bergs, an’ ’twas all raftered an’ jammed by the westerly gales o’ that season. After dawn then; an’ ’twas a slow, greasy dawn, I mind. But the yellow light growed fast in the fog; an’ the mist thinned in a whiff o’ wind from the nor’west. ‘Twould lift, by an’ by: a clean, gray day. ‘Every man for hisself,’ says Cap’n Sammy, as we drawed near, ‘an’ the devil take the hindmost. She’s a likely-lookin’ craft. Pinched fast, too. An’ the weather-glass kickin’ at its foundations! Eh, Tumm? Every man for hisself.’ It turned out Cap’n Sammy was right. She was a tramp, the Claymore, two thousand tons, outbound from Liverpool t’ Canadian ports, loaded deep, an’ now tight in the grip o’ the ice. In a big blow o’ wind her iron sides would yield like paper t’ the crush o’ the pack. An’ if the signs read true that blow was brewin’ in the nor’west. ‘Twas breezin’ up, down there, with the sky in a saucy temper. From the deck o’ the Claymore I looked t’ the west, where the little puffs o’ wind was jumpin’ from, an’ t’ the sour sky, an’ roundabout upon the ice; an’ I was glad I wasn’t shipped aboard that thin-skinned British tramp, but was mate of a swilin’-steamer, Newf’un’land built, with sixteen-inch oak sides, an’ thrice braced with oak in the bows. She was spick an’ span, that big black tramp, fore an’ aft, aloft an’ below; but in a drive o’ ice–with the wind whippin’ it up, an’ the night dark, an’ the pack a livin’, roarin’ whirlpool o’ pans an’ bergs–white decks an’ polished brass don’t count for much. ‘Tis a stout oak bottom, then, that makes for peace o’ mind.