ve that bellerin' ironclad a toot.'

"I tooted.

"'You come along o' me, Tumm,' says he, 'an' learn how t' squeeze a
lemon.'

"Cap'n Sammy kep' explodin' in little chuckles, like a bunch o'
Queen's-birthday firecrackers, as we trudged the ice toward the
howlin' ship in the mist. 'Twas a hundred fathoms o' rough goin', I
promise you, that northern slob, in which the tramp an' the _Royal
Bloodhound_ lay neighbors; an' 'twas mixed with hummocks an' bergs,
an' 'twas all raftered an' jammed by the westerly gales o' that
season. After dawn then; an' 'twas a slow, greasy dawn, I mind. But
the yellow light growed fast in the fog; an' the mist thinned in a
whiff o' wind from the nor'west. 'Twould lift, by an' by: a clean,
gray day. 'Every man for hisself,' says Cap'n Sammy, as we drawed
near, 'an' the devil take the hindmost. She's a likely-lookin' craft.
Pinched fast, too. An' the weather-glass kickin' at its foundations!
Eh, Tumm? Every man for hisself.' It turned out Cap'n Sammy was right.
She was a tramp, the _Claymore_, two thousand tons, outbound from
Liverpool t' Canadian ports, loaded deep, an' now tight in the grip o'
the ice. In a big blow o' wind her iron sides would yield like paper
t' the crush o' the pack. An' if the signs read true that blow was
brewin' in the nor'west. 'Twas breezin' up, down there, with the sky
in a saucy temper. From the deck o' the _Claymore_ I looked t' the
west, where the little puffs o' wind was jumpin' from, an' t' the sour
sky, an' roundabout upon the ice; an' I was glad I wasn't shipped
aboard that thin-skinned British tramp, but was mate of a
swilin'-steamer, Newf'un'land built, with sixteen-inch oak sides, an'
thrice braced with oak in the bows. She was spick an' span, that big
black tramp, fore an' aft, aloft an' below; but in a drive o'
ice--with the wind whippin' it up, an' the night dark, an' the pack a
livin', roarin' whirlpool o' pans an' bergs--white decks an' polished
brass don't count for much. 'Tis a stout oak bottom, then, that makes
for peace o' mind.

"Cap'n Wrath, at your service, sir: a close-whiskered, bristly,
pot-bellied little Britisher in brass buttons an' blue. 'Glad t' know
you, Cap'n Small,' says he. 'You've come in the nick o' time, sir. How
near can you steam with that ol' batterin'-ram o' yours?'

"'That ol' _what_?' says Cap'n Sammy.

"'Here, some o' you!' Cap'n Wrath yelled t' the crew; 'get a line----'

"'Hol' on!' says Cap'n Sammy; 'no hurry.'