my son," says he; "'tis quite true."

"Oh, my poor pa!"

Skipper Harry put a finger under the lad's chin an' tipped up his
face.

"Who tol' you?" says he.

"I found a ol' newspaper, sir, in Sandy Spot's bureau, sir, where I
was forbid t' pry, sir, an' I read all about it. My pa left one child
named Samuel when he was hanged by the neck--an' that's me."

"You've told nobody what you learned?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"I'd liefer pretend not t' know, sir, when they baited me, an' so save
myself shame."

"Jus' so, my son."

"An' I jus' lied an' lied an' lied!"

"Mm-m."

Skipper Harry lifted the lad t' the counter, then, an' bent to a level
with his eyes.

"Look me in the eye, son," says he. "I've a grave word t' say t' you.
Will you listen well an' ponder?"

"I'll ponder, sir, an you'll jus' forgive my fault."

"Sammy, my son," says the skipper, "I forgives it freely. Now, listen
t' me. Is you listenin'? Well, now, I knows a snug harbor t' the south
o' this. Tis called Yesterday Cove. An' in the harbor is a cottage,
an' in the cottage is a woman; an' the woman is ample an' kind. She've
no lad of her own--that kind, ample woman. She've only a husband.
That's me. An' I been thinkin'----"

I stirred myself.

"I 'low I'll meander for'ard," says I, "an' have a cup o' tea with the
hands."

"Do, Tumm," says the skipper.

* * * * *

Well, now, I went for'ard t' have my cup o' tea an' brood on this
sorry matter. 'Twas plain, however, what was in the wind; an' when I
went aft again, an' begun t' meander along, breathin' the sad strains
o' Toby Farr's songs on my flute, the thing had come t' pass, though
no word was said about it. There was the skipper an' wee Sammy Scull,
yarnin' t'gether like ol' cronies--the lad with his ears an' eyes
wide t' the tale that Hard Harry was tellin'. I jus' wet my whistle
with a drop o' water, t' limber my lips for the music, an' whispered
away on my flute; but as I played I must listen, an' as I listened I
was astonished, an' presently I give over my tootin' altogether, the
better t' hearken t' the wild yarn that Hard Harry was spinnin'. 'Twas
a yarn that was well knowed t' me. Man alive! Whew! 'Twas a tax on the
belief--that yarn! Ay, I had heared it afore--the yarn o' how Hard
Harry had chopped a way t' the crest of an iceberg in foul weather t'
spy out a course above the fog, an' o' how he had split the berg in
two with the last blow of