ly saints, skipper, ye'd not be sendin' me to choppin' poles wid a
head on me like a lobster-pot?" he whispered. "Sure, skipper, me poor
head feels that desperate bad, what wid the liquor an' the clout ye give
me, I couldn't heave it up from the pillow if Saint Peter himself give
the word."

"I bain't troublin' about Saint Peter," returned the skipper. "If ever
he wants ye to chop poles he'll see as how ye does it, I bes t'inkin'!
It bes me a-tellin' ye now; an' if ye can't carry yer head to the woods
wid ye to-day, ye treacherous dog, I'll knock it off for ye to-night so
ye'll be able to carry it 'round in yer two hands. Mark that!"

So the skipper paid his round of morning calls. At some cabins he paused
only long enough to shout a word through the door, at others he remained
for several minutes, re-inspiring treacherous but simple hearts with the
fear of Dennis Nolan, master of Chance Along. At one bed he stayed for
fifteen minutes, examining and rebandaging the wound given by the knife
of Dick Lynch. As for that drunken, sullen, treacherous savage, Dick
Lynch himself, he dragged him from his blankets, knocked him about the
floor, and then flung him back on to his bed. Then, turning to the dazed
man's horrified wife, he said, "See that he don't turn on me agin,
Biddy, or by the crowns o' the Holy Saints I'll be the everlastin' death
o' him!"

At some of the cabins his orders were for the woods, and at some they
were for work on the stranded ship. He did not disturb Bill Brennen or
Nick Leary. He knew that they would be around at his house for orders by
sun-up. The last cabin he visited was that of Pat Kavanagh. Kavanagh was
a man of parts, and had been a close friend of the old skipper. He was a
man of the world, having sailed deep-sea voyages in his youth. He was a
grand fiddler, a grand singer, and had made more "Come-all-ye's" than
you could count on your fingers and toes. He had a wooden leg; and his
daughter was the finest girl in Chance Along. His best known
Come-all-ye, which is sung to this day from Caplin Arm to Bay Bulls,
starts like this:--

"Come, all ye hardy fishermen
An' hearken to me lay
O' how the good brig 'Peggy Bell'
Went down in Trin'ty Bay.

"The skipper he was from St. John's,
The mate from Harbor Grace;
The bosun was a noble lad
Wid whiskers 'round his face."

Pat Kavanagh was the author of the ballad that commences this way, and
of many more.