switched the _Royal
Bloodhound_ about, an' steamed off, with all sail spread, bound down
t' the Grand Banks in a nor'west gale, with a burst o' snow t' season
it.

"We made the northerly limits o' the Grand Banks in fog an' ca'm
weather. Black fog: thick 's mud. We lay to--butted a league into the
pack-ice. Greasy weather: a close world an' a moody glass.

"'Cap'n Sammy,' says I, on the bridge, 'there's no tellin' where a man
will strike the fat.'

"'Small chance for fat, damme!' says he, 'in fog an' broodin'
weather.'

"'Give her a show,' says I, 'an' she'll lighten.'

"'Lighten?' says he. 'Afore night, Tumm, she'll blow this fog t' the
Saragossa Sea.'

"The glass was in a mean, poor temper, an' the air was still, an'
thick, an' sweaty.

"'Blow?' says he. 'Ay; she's breedin' a naughty nor'west gale o' wind
down there.'

"It seemed t' me then I seed a shadow in the fog; an', 'Cap'n Sammy,'
says I, 'what's that off the port bow?'

"'What's what?' says he.

"'That patch o' black in the mist.'

"'Tumm,' says he, 'you might tweak the toot-rope.'

"The _Royal Bloodhound_ hadn't opened her mouth afore there came a
howl from the mist.

"Cap'n Sammy jumped. 'What d'ye make o' that?' says he.

"'I make a ship,' says I.

"He lifted his hand. 'Hark!' says he.

"Whatever she was, she was yellin' for help like a bull in a bog.

"'Whoo-o-o-oo! Whoo, whoo! Whoo-o-oo-_ugh_!'

"Cap'n Sammy grinned. 'I make a tramp cotched fast in the ice,' says
he.

"'Whoo-o-oo-_ugh_! Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo-o-_oop_!'

"'I make a tramp,' says he, rubbin' his hands, 'with her propeller
ripped off.'

"I reached a hand for the rope.

"'Hol' on!' says he; 'you keep your hook off that there whistle.'

"'I was thinkin',' says I, 't' speed a message o' comfort.'

"'Let her beller a bit, ye dunderhead!' says he.

"'What for?' says I.

"'T' make sure in her own mind,' says he, 'that she needs a kindly
hand t' help her.'

"'Twould be easy enough for the steam-swiler _Royal Bloodhound_ t'
jerk that yelpin' tramp, had she lost her propeller--as well she
might, poor helpless lady o' fashion! in that slob-ice--'twould be
easy enough t' rip her through a league o' the floe t' open water,
with a charge or two o' good black powder t' help.

"'Tumm,' says Cap'n Sammy, by an' by, 'how's the glass?'

"'She've the look an' conduct o' the devil, sir.'

"'Good!' says he. 'I hopes she kicks the bottom out. You might go so
far as t' gi