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“We got under way over the ice, then, for the Royal Bloodhound. ‘Skipper Sammy,’ says I, by an’ by, ‘was you reasonable with un?’

“‘When I gets what I’m bound t’ have, Tumm,’ says he, ‘they won’t be much juice left in that lemon.’

“‘You been lappin’ rum, Skipper Sammy,’ says I, ‘an’ you mark me, your judgment is at fault.’

“A squall o’ wind near foundered the ol’ feller; but he took a reef in his coon-skin coat an’ weathered it. ‘I’m jus’ standin’ by the teachin’ o’ my youth,’ says he; ‘an’ they isn’t no meanness in my heart. Give me your hand, Tumm, an’ we’ll do better in these rough places. How she blows! An’ they’s a chill comin’ down with the wind. My bones is old, Tumm; they hurts me, an’ it seems t’ me I hears un creak. Somehow or other,’ says he, ‘I’m all tired out.’

“When we got aboard the Royal Bloodhound, Cap’n Sammy bucked the ship within thirty fathoms of the tramp an’ lay to. ‘Nothin’ t’ do now, Tumm,’ says he, ‘but take it easy. All my swilin’ life,’ says he, ‘I been wantin’ t’ cotch a tramp Britisher in a mess like this; an’ now that I is cotched one, on my last cruise, I ‘low I might as well enjoy myself. I’m all in a shiver, an’ I’m goin’ t’ have a glass o’ rum.’ An’ off he went to his cabin; an’ there, ecod! he kep’ his ol’ bones till long after noon, while the gale made up its mind t’ come down an’ work its will. Some time afore dark, I found un there still, with a bottle beside un. He was keepin’ a little green eye on a Yankee alarm-clock. ‘There’s another minute gone,’ says he, ‘an’ that’s another dollar. How’s the wind? Comin’ down at last? Good–that’s good! ‘Twon’t be long afore that tramp begins t’ yelp. Jus’ about time for me t’ have a dram o’ rum, if I’m t’ keep on ridin’ easy. Whew!’ says he, when the dram was down, ‘there’s three more minutes gone, an’ that’s three more dollars. Been waitin’ all my swilin’ life t’ squeeze a tramp; an’ now I’m havin’ a right good time doin’ of it. I got a expensive son t’ fetch up,’ says he, ‘an’ I needs all the money I can lay my hooks on. There’s another minute gone.’ He was half-seas-over now: not foundered–he’d ever a cautious hand with a bottle–but well smothered. An’ I’ve wondered since–ay, an’ many’s the time–jus’ what happened up Aloft t’ ease off Sam Small’s meanness in that hour. He’d never been mastered afore by rum: that I’ll be bound for–an’ never his own rum. ‘I got a expensive son t’ raise,’ says he, ‘an’ I wants t’ lay my paws on cash. There’s another minute gone!’ Queer work, this, o’ the A’mighty’s: rum had loosed the ol’ man’s greed beyond caution; an’ there sot he, in liquor, dreamin’ dreams, to his death, for the son of the flaxen girl he’d wronged.

“I stepped outside; but a squall o’ soggy wind slapped me in the face–a gust that tweaked my whiskers–an’ I jumped back in a hurry t’ Skipper Sammy’s cabin. ‘Cap’n Sammy, sir,’ says I, ‘the gale’s down.’

“‘The wind,’ says he, ‘has the habit o’ blowin’ in March weather.’

“‘I don’t like it, sir,’ says I.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I got a young spendthrift t’ fetch up, isn’t I?’

“‘Still an’ all, sir,’ says I, ‘I don’t like it.’

“‘Damme, Tumm!’ says he, ‘isn’t you got nothin’ better t’ do than stand there carpin’ at God A’mighty’s wind?’

“‘They’s a big field o’ ice t’ win’ward, sir,’ says I. ”Tis comin’ down with the gale; ’twill ram this pack within the hour.’

“‘You stand by,’ says he, ‘t’ take a line from that tramp when she yelps.’