o wind'ard
of him. He's that vain he'd drive vessel, himself, and all hands to the
bottom afore he'd let some folks think anything else of him."

"He lost my boy--we'll say no more of him," said John Snow.

"Ay," said Saul Haverick, "we'll speak no more of him. But I was
Arthur's dory mate, John Snow, as you well know, and my heart is sick to
think of it. I'll be going now," and go he did, softly and by way of the
back stairs; and he no more than gone when a knock came to the door.

After a time, the clock on the mantel ticking loud among us, John Snow
called out: "Come in!"

II

I remember how Hugh Glynn stepped within the door of John Snow's kitchen
that night, and how he bent his head to step within; and, bending his
head, took off his cap; and how he bowed to John Snow, Mrs. Snow, and
Mary Snow in turn, and, facing John Snow, made as if to speak; but how
his voice would not come, not until he had lifted his head yet higher
and cleared his throat. And beginning again, he took a step nearer the
middle of the floor, to where the light of the bracket lamp above the
kitchen table shone full on his face. He was a grand man to look at, not
only his face but the height and build of him, and he was fresh in from
sea.

"John Snow--and you, Mrs. Snow--the _Arbiter's_ to anchor in the stream,
and her flag's to half-mast. And knowing that, maybe there's no need to
say anything more."

Mrs. Snow said nothing, Mary Snow said nothing, but I remember how from
under John Snow's brows the deep eyes glowed out.

"Go on," said John Snow at last.

Hugh Glynn went on. "Well, he was a good boy, your Arthur--maybe you'd
like to be told that, even by me, though of course you that was his
father, John Snow, and you that was his mother, Mrs. Snow, know better
than anybody else what he was. Three nights ago it was, and we to the
south'ard of Sable Island in as nasty a breeze as I'd been in for some
time. A living gale it was, a November no'wester--you know what that is,
John Snow--but I'd all night been telling the crew to be careful, for a
sea there was to sweep to eternity whoever it could've caught loose
around deck. I could've hove her to and let her lay, but I was never one
to heave to my vessel--not once I'd swung her off for home. And there,
God help me, is maybe my weakness.

"She was under her gaff tops'l, but I see she couldn't stand it. 'Boys,'
says I, 'clew up that tops'l.' Which they did, and put it in gaskets,