rted. Damn the expense, anyhow! Let
the lad spend his money as he has the notion.'

"An' Sam Small smiled.

* * * * *

"'Tumm,' says Small Sam Small, that night, when the boy was gone t'
bed, 'ecod! but the child spends like a gentleman.'

"'How's that, Skipper Sammy?'

"'Free,' says he, 'an' genial.'

"'He'll overdo it,' says I.

"'No,' says he;' 'tisn't in the blood. He'll spend what he haves--no
more. An' like a gentleman, too--free an' genial as the big-bugs. A
marvelous lad, Tumm,' says he; 'he've ab-se-_lute_-ly no regard for
money.'

"'Not he.'

"'Ecod!'

"'He'll be a comfort, Skipper Sammy,' says I, 'on the swilin' v'yage.'

"'I 'low, Tumm,' says he, 'that I've missed a lot, in my life, these
last fifteen year, through foolishness. You send the lad home,' says
he; 'he's a gentleman, an' haves no place on a swilin'-ship. An' they
isn't no sense, Tumm,' says he, 'in chancin' the life of a fair lad
like that at sea. Let un go home to his mother; _she'll_ be glad t'
see un again. A man ought t' loosen up in his old age: I'll pay. An',
Tumm--here's a two-dollar note. You tell the lad t' waste it _all_ on
bananas. This here bein' generous,' says he, 'is an expensive
diversion. I got t' save my pennies--_now_!'

* * * * *

"Well, well!" Tumm went on; "trust Small Sam Small t' be off for the
ice on the stroke o' the hour for swilers' sailin'--an' a few minutes
t' win'ward o' the law. An' the _Royal Bloodhound_ had heels, too--an'
a heart for labor. With a fair start from Seldom-Come-By, Skipper
Sammy beat the fleet t' the Funks an' t' the first drift-ice beyond.
March days: nor'westerly gales, white water an' snowy weather--an' no
let-up on the engines. Ice? Ay; big floes o' northerly ice, come down
from the Circle with current an' wind--breedin'-grounds for swile. But
there wasn't no swiles. Never the bark of a dog-hood nor the whine of
a new-born white-coat. Cap'n Sammy nosed the ice into White Bay; he
worked out above the Horse Islands; he took a peep at the Cape Norman
light an' swatched the Labrador seas. But never a swile got we. 'The
swiles,' says he, 'is t' the east an' s'uth'ard. With these here
westerly gales blowin' wild an' cold as perdition they've gone down
the Grand Banks way. The fleet will smell around here till they wears
their noses out,' says he; 'but Cap'n Sam Small is off t' the
s'uth'ard t' get his load o' fat.' An' he