d in her hold and the gear and
casks and what-not on her deck--they took the _Trap and Seine_ into the
gale. And she made brave weather of it--holding her own stoutly,
cheerily shaking the frothy water from her bows: though 'twas an unfair
task to put her to. Skipper Tommy put the first hand at the mainsail
halliards, the second hand at the foresail, with orders to cut away at
the lift of his hand, lest the vessel get on her beam's ends and
capsize. 'Twas thus that they drove her into the wind--stout hearts and
stout timber: no wavering or weak complaint, whatever the wind and sea.
But night caught them off our harbour--deep night: with the headlands
near lost in the black sky; no more than the looming, changing shadow
of the hills and the intermittent flash of breakers to guide the way.
They were now beating along shore, close to Long Cove of the mainland,
which must then have lain placid in the lee of Naked Point. At the cry
of "Hard-a-lee!"--sung out in terror when the breakers were fair under
the bow--the ship came about and fell off towards the open sea. Then
came three great waves; they broke over the bow--swept the schooner,
stem to stern, the deck litter going off in a rush of white water. The
first wrenched Jacky from his handhold; but Skipper Tommy, standing
astern, caught him by the collar as the lad went over the taffrail.
Came, then, with the second wave, Timmie, whom, also, the skipper
caught. But 'twas beyond the old man's power to lift both to the deck:
nor could he cry for help, nor choose whom to drop, loving them alike;
but desperately clung to both until the rush of the third wave tore one
away.

It was Timmie.

* * * * *

Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, making into our harbour, by way of the Gate, in
the depths of that wild night--poor old Skipper Tommy, blind and broken
by grief--ran his loaded schooner into the Trap and wrecked her on the
Seven Murderers, where she went to pieces on the unfeeling rocks. But
we managed to get the crew ashore, and no man lost his life at that
time. And Skipper Tommy, sitting bowed in my father's house, told us in
a dull, slow way--made tragic, from time to time, by the sweet light in
his eye, by the flitting shadow of a smile--told us, thus, that Jagger
of Wayfarer's Tickle lay at the point of death, in fear of hell, crying
for the help of his enemy: and then put his arm about Jacky, and went
with him to the Rat Hole, there to bury his sorro