r off out o' the
wind. We'll be makin' for Harbour Round for shelter. Holdin' on, did you
say? My dear man, they's a whirlwind brewin'!'

"But if 'twas blowin' hard--a nor'east snorter, with the gale raisin' a
wind-lop on the swell, an' the night comin' down--if 'twas blowin'
barb'rous hard, sometimes we'd get scared.

"'Skipper,' we couldn't help sayin', ''tis time t' get out o' this. Leave
us run for shelter, man, for our lives!'

"'Steady, there, at the wheel!' he'd sing out. 'Keep her on her course.
'Tis no more than a clever sailin' breeze.'

"Believe _me_, sir," Docks sighed, "they wasn't a port Skipper Jim
wouldn't make, whatever the weather, if he could trade a dress or a
Bible or a what-not for a quintal o' fish. 'Docks,' says he, 'Jagger,'
says he, 'wants fish, an' _I_ got t' get un.' So it wasn't pleasant
sailin' along o' him in the fall o' the year, when the wind was all in
the nor'east, an' the shore was a lee shore every night o' the week. No,
sir! 'twasn't pleasant sailin' along o' Skipper Jim in the _Sink or
Swim_. On no account, 'twasn't pleasant! Believe _me_, sir, when I lets
my heart feel again the fears o' last fall, I haven't no love left for
Jim. No, sir! doin' what he done this summer, I haven't no love left for
Jim.

"'It's fish me an' Jagger wants, b'y,' says he t' me, 'an' they's no
one'll keep un from us.'

"'Dear man!' says I, pointin' t' the scales, 'haven't you got no
conscience?'

"'Conscience!' says he. 'What's that? Sure,' says he, 'Jagger never
_heared_ that word!'

"Well, sir, as you knows, there's been a wonderful cotch o' fish on the
Labrador side o' the Straits this summer. An' when Skipper Jim hears a
Frenchman has brought the smallpox t' Poor Luck Harbour, we was tradin'
the French shore o' Newfoundland. Then he up an' cusses the smallpox,
an' says he'll make a v'y'ge of it, no matter what. I'm thinkin' 'twas
all the fault o' the cook, the skipper bein' the contrary man he was;
for the cook he says he've signed t' cook the grub, an' he'll cook 'til
he drops in his tracks, but he _haven't_ signed t' take the smallpox,
an' he'll be jiggered for a squid afore he'll sail t' the Labrador.
'Smallpox!' says the skipper. 'Who says 'tis the smallpox? Me an' Jagger
says 'tis the chicken-pox.' So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he
had--says he'll sail t' the Labrador all right, but he'll see himself
hanged for a mutineer afore he'll enter Poor Luck Harbour. 'Poor Luck
Harbo