erhaps he still entertained a lingering hope that it had escaped.
There is no doubt he prayed for its preservation, and he had strong
faith in prayer. At any rate, at half past eleven o'clock that night
he was up and dressed, and routed his two sons out of their beds. At
the stroke of midnight, waiting a tick longer perhaps, to be quite
sure that Sunday had gone and Monday morning had arrived, he and his
sons pushed out in their big boat.

Skipper Tom would not be doing his best if he did not make certain of
what had actually happened to the cod trap. Every one in Red Bay said
it had been destroyed, and no doubt of that. But no one knew for a
certainty, and there _might_ have been an intervention of Divine
Providence.

"The Lard helped us to get that trap," said Skipper Tom, "and 'tis
hard to believe he'll take un away from us so soon, for I tried not to
be vain about un, only just a bit proud of un and glad I has un. If
He's took un from me I'll know 'twere to try my faith, and I'll never
complain."

Down they rowed toward the iceberg, whose polished surface gleamed
white in the starlight.

"She's right over where the trap were set! The trap's gone," said one
of the sons.

"I'm doubtin'," Skipper Tom was measuring the distance critically with
his eye.

"The trap's tore to pieces," insisted the son with discouragement in
his voice.

"The berg's to the lee'ard of she," declared Skipper Tom finally.

"Tis too close t' shore."

"'Tis to the lee'ard!"

"Is you sure, now, Pop?"

"The trap's safe and sound! The berg _is_ t' the lee'ard!"

Tom was right. A shift of tide had come at the right moment to save
the trap.

"The Lard is good to us," breathed Skipper Tom. "He've saved our trap!
He always takes care of them that does what they feels is right. We'll
thank the Lard, lads."

In the trap was a fine haul of cod, and when they had removed the fish
the trap was transferred to a new position where it would be quite
safe until the menacing iceberg had drifted away.

There were seventeen families living in Red Bay. As settlements go,
down on The Labrador, seventeen cabins, each housing a family, is
deemed a pretty good sized place.

At Red Bay, as elsewhere on the coast, bad seasons for fishing came
now and again. These occur when the ice holds inshore so long that the
best run of cod has passed before the men can get at them; or because
for some unexplained reason the cod do not appear at all along certai