ran to
the compass to take bearings.

Old Jock came out of the rigging. Then, in a steady voice, more
ominous than a string of oaths, "Luff! Down helm, m' lad, an' keep her
close!" And to the pilot, "Well? What d'ye mak' of it, Mister?"

"Stags, Capt'in! _Diwedd i_! That I should be mistake.... The others
... God knows! ... If it iss th' Stags, Capt'in ... the passage t'
th' suth'ard.... I know it ... we can run ... if it iss th' Stags,
Capt'in!"

"An' if it's no' th' Stags! M' Goad! Hoo many Stags d'ye know,
Mister? No! No! We'll keep th' sea, if she can weather thae rocks
... an' if she canna!!" A mute gesture--then, passionately, "T' hell
wi' you an' yer b----y Stags: I back ma ship against a worthless pilot!
All hands, there, Mister--mains'l an' to'galn's'l oan her! Up, ye
hounds; up, if ye look fur dry berryin'!"

All hands! No need for a call! "Breakers ahead"--the words that sent
us racing to the yards, to out knife and whip at the gaskets that held
our saving power in leash. Quickly done, the great mainsail blew out,
thrashing furiously till steadied by tack and sheet. Then topgal'n'
sail, the spars buckling to overstrain; staysail, spanker--never was
canvas crowded on a ship at such a pace; a mighty fear at our hearts
that only frenzied action could allay.

Shuddering, she lay down to it, the lee rail entirely awash, the decks
canted at a fearsome angle; then righted--a swift, vicious lurch, and
her head sweeping wildly to windward till checked by the heaving
helmsman. The wind that we had thought moderate when running before it
now held at half a gale. To that she might have stood weatherly, but
the great western swell--spawn of uncounted gales--was matched against
her, rolling up to check the windward snatches and sending her reeling
to leeward in a smother of foam and broken water.

A gallant fight! At the weather gangway stood Old Jock, legs apart and
sturdy, talking to his ship.

"Stand, good spars," he would say, casting longing eyes aloft. Or,
patting the taffrail with his great sailor hands, "Up tae it, ye bitch!
Up!! Up!!!" as, raising her head, streaming in cascade from a
sail-pressed plunge, she turned to meet the next great wall of water
that set against her. "She'll stand it, Mister," to the Mate at his
side. "She'll stand it, an' the head gear holds. If she starts
that!"--he turned his palms out--"If she starts th' head gear, Mister!"

"They'll hold, Sir! .