per of the _Greased Lightning_,
"don't you go sayin' a word 'til I brew you a cup o' tea. On the
Harbourless Shore, says you? An' all hands lost? Don't you say a word.
Not one!"

The castaway turned a ghastly face towards the skipper. "No," he
whispered, in a gasp, "not one."

"Not you!" Skipper Billy rattled. "You keep mum. Don't you so much as
_mutter_ 'til I melts that iceberg in your belly."

"No, sir."

Perchance to forestall some perverse attempt at loquacity, Skipper Billy
lifted his voice in song--a large, rasping voice, little enough
acquainted with melody, but expressing the worst of the rage of those
days: being thus quite sufficient to the occasion.

"Oh, _have_ you seed the skipper o' the schooner _Sink or Swim_?
We'll use a rope what's long an' strong, when we cotches him.
He've a case o' smallpox for'ard,
An' we'll hang un, by the Lord!
For he've traded every fishin' port from Conch t' Harbour Rim.

"T' save the folk that dreads it,
We'll _hang_ the man that spreads it,
They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!"

"Skipper Billy, sir," said Docks, hoarsely, leaning into the light of
the forecastle lamp, "does you say _hang_? Was they goin' t' hang
Skipper Jim if they cotched him?"

"_Was_ we?" asked Skipper Billy. "By God," he roared, "we _is_!"

"My God!" Docks whispered, staring deep into the skipper's eyes, "they
was goin' t' hang the skipper!"

There was not so much as the drawing of a breath then to be heard in the
forecastle of the _Greased Lightning_. Only the wind, blowing in the
night--and the water lapping at the prow--broke the silence.

"Skipper Billy, sir," said Docks, his voice breaking to a whimper, "was
they goin' t' hang the crew? They wasn't, was they? Not goin' t' _hang_
un?"

"Skipper t' cook, lad," Skipper Billy answered, the words prompt and
sure. "Hang un by the neck 'til they was dead."

"My God!" Docks whined. "They was goin' t' hang the crew!"

"But we isn't cotched un yet."

"No," said the boy, vacantly. "Nor you never will."

The skipper hitched close to the table. "Lookee, lad," said he, leaning
over until his face was close to the face of Docks, "was _you_ ever
aboard the _Sink or Swim_?"

"Ay, sir," Docks replied, at last, brushing his hair from his brow. "I
was clerk aboard the _Sink or Swim_ two days ago."

For a time Skipper Billy quietly regarded the lad--the while scratching
his beard with a shaking han