markable
man, and looked it, just now, in spite of the red handkerchief that
bound his hat down over his ears.

"Nothing alive there--eh?"

Young Zeb, with a glass at his left eye, answered--

"Nothin' left but a frame o' ribs, sir, an' the foremast hangin' over,
so far as I can see; but 'tis all a raffle o' spars and riggin' close
under her side. I'll tell 'ee better when this wave goes by."

But the next instant he took down the glass, with a whitened face, and
handed it to the parson.

The parson looked too. "Terrible!--terrible!" he said, very slowly,
and passed it on to Farmer Tresidder.

"What is it? Where be I to look? Aw, pore chaps--pore chaps!
Man alive--but there's one movin'!"

Zeb snatched the glass.

"'Pon the riggin', Zeb, just under her lee! I saw en move--
a black-headed chap, in a red shirt--"

"Right, Farmer--he's clingin', too, not lashed." Zeb gave a long look.
"Darned if I won't!" he said. "Cast over them corks, Sim Udy! How much
rope have 'ee got, Jim?" He began to strip as he spoke.

"Lashins," answered Jim Lewarne.

"Splice it up, then, an' hitch a dozen corks along it."

"Zeb, Zeb!" cried his father, "What be 'bout?"

"Swimmin'," answered Zeb, who by this time had unlaced his boots.

"The notion! Look here, friends--take a look at the bufflehead!
Not three months back his mother's brother goes dead an' leaves en a
legacy, 'pon which, he sets up as jowter--han'some painted cart, tidy
little mare, an' all complete, besides a bravish sum laid by. A man of
substance, sirs--a life o' much price, as you may say. Aw, Zeb, my son,
'tis hard to lose 'ee, but 'tis harder still now you're in such a very
fair way o' business!"

"Hold thy clack, father, an' tie thicky knot, so's it won't slip."

"Shan't. I've a-took boundless pains wi' thee, my son, from thy birth
up: hours I've a-spent curin' thy propensities wi' the strap--ay, hours.
D'ee think I raised 'ee up so carefully to chuck thyself away 'pon a
come-by-chance furriner? No, I didn'; an' I'll see thee jiggered afore
I ties 'ee up. Pa'son Babbage--"

"Ye dundering old shammick!" broke in the parson, driving the ferule of
his cane deep in the sand, "be content to have begotten a fool, and
thank heaven and his mother he's a gamey fool."

"Thank'ee, Pa'son," said Young Zeb, turning his head as Jim Lewarne
fastened the belt of corks under his armpits. "Now the line--not too
tight round the waist, an' pay out steady.