the wind went swingin' round--the _Royal
Bloodhound_ an' the _Claymore_ would be floatin' free. An' round she
went, on the jump; an' she blowed high--an' higher yet--with every
squall.

"I jumped when I cotched sight o' Cap'n Sammy's face. 'Twas
ghastly--an' all in a sour pucker o' wrinkles. Seemed, too, that his
voice had got lost in his throat. 'Tumm,' says he, 'fetch my coon-skin
coat. I'm goin' aboard Cap'n Wrath,' says he, 't' reason.'

"'You'll never do _that_!' says I.

"'I wants my tow,' says he; 'an' Cap'n Wrath is a warm-water sailor,
an' won't know what this ice will do.'

"'Skipper Sammy,' says I, ''tis no fit time for any man t' be on the
ice. The pack's goin' abroad in this wind.'

"'I'm used t' the ice from my youth up,' says he, 'an' I'll manage the
passage.'

"'Man,' says I, 'the night's near down!'

"'Mr. Tumm, I'm a kindly skipper,' says he, 'but I haves my way. My
coon-skin coat, sir!'

"I fetched it.

"'Take the ship, Mr. Tumm,' says he; 'an' stand aside, sir, an you
please!'

"Touched with rum, half mad o' balked greed, with a face like wrinkled
foolscap, Small Sam Small went over the side, in his coonskin coat.
The foggy night fell down. The lights o' the _Claymore_ showed dim in
the drivin' mist. The wind had its way. An' it blowed the slob off t'
sea like feathers. What a wonder o' power is the wind! An' the sea
begun t' hiss an' swell where the ice had been. From the fog come the
clang o' the _Claymore's_ telegraph, the chug-chug of her engines, an'
a long howl o' delight as she gathered way. 'Twas no time at all, it
seemed t' me, afore we lost her lights in the mist. An' in that black
night--with the wind t' smother his cries--we couldn't find Sammy
Small.

* * * * *

"The wind fell away at dawn," Tumm went on. "A gray day: the sea a
cold gray--the sky a drear color. We found Skipper Sammy, close t'
noon, with fog closin' down, an' a drip o' rain fallin'. He was
squatted on a pan o' ice--broodin'--wrapped up in his coonskin coat.
'Tumm,' says he, 'carry my ol' bones aboard.' An' he said never a word
more until we had un stretched out in his bunk an' the chill eased
off. 'Tumm,' says he, 'I got everything fixed in writin', in St.
John's, for--my son. I've made you executor, Tumm, for I knows you
haves a kindly feelin' for the lad, an' an inklin', maybe, o' the kind
o' man I wished I was. A fair lad: a fine, brave lad, with a free
hand. I'm glad