s they call it, at the Pint of Portsmouth--and so, you
see, falling in with him, I wished to learn something about my new
skipper, and what sort of a chap I should have to deal with. When I
learnt all about _him_, I'd half-a-dozen minds to shove off again, but
then I was adrift, and so I thought better of it. It won't do to be so
nice in peace times, you know, my lads, when all the big ships are
rotting in Southampton and Cinque Port muds. Well, then, what he told
me I recollect as well--ay, every word of it--as it he had whispered it
into my ear but this minute. It was a blustering night, with a dirty
south-wester, and the chafing of the harbour waves was thrown up in
foams, which the winds swept up the street, they chasing one another as
if they were boys at play. It was about two bells in the middle watch,
and after our fifth glass, that Joe Geary said as this:--

"It was one dark winter's night when we were off the Texel, blowing
terribly, with the coast under our lee, clawing off under storm canvas,
and fighting with the elements for every inch of ground, a hand in the
chains, for we had nothing but the lead to trust to, and the vessel so
flogged by the waves, that he was lashed to the rigging, that he might
not be washed away; all of a sudden the wind came with a blast loud
enough for the last frump, and the waves roared till they were hoarser
than ever; away went the vessel's mast, although there was no more
canvas on it than a jib pocket-handkerchief, and the craft rolled and
tossed in the deep troughs for all the world like a wicked man dying in
despair; and then she was a wreck, with nothing to help us but God
Almighty, fast borne down upon the sands which the waters had disturbed,
and were dashing about until they themselves were weary of the load; and
all the seamen cried unto the Lord, as well they might.

"Now they say, that _he_ did not cry as they did, like men and
Christians, to Him who made them and the waters which surrounded and
threatened them; for Death was then in all his glory, and the foaming
crests of the waves were as plumes of feathers to his skeleton head
beneath them; but he cried like a child--and swore terribly as well as
cried--talking about his money, his dear money, and not caring about his
more precious soul.

"And the cutter was borne down, every wave pushing her with giant force
nearer and nearer to destruction, when the man at the chains shrieked
out--`Mark three, and the Lo