mping her
out, and before dark had her floating alongside us. Late that night we
were once more anchored--this time opposite the dwelling-house of my
friend the owner. We immediately went ashore and woke him up. There is
a great deal in doing things at the psychological moment; and by
midnight I had a deed duly drawn up, signed and sealed, selling me the
steamer for fifty cents. I still see the look in his eyes as he gave
me fifty cents change from a dollar. He was a self-made man, had
acquired considerable money, and was keen as a ferret at business. The
deed was to me a confession that he was in the plot for barratry, to
murder the boat for her insurance.

On our trip South we picked up the small steamer, and towing her to a
Hudson Bay Company's Post we put her "on the hard," photographed the
hole, with all the splintering on the outside, and had a proper survey
of the hull made by the Company's shipwright. The unanimous verdict
was "wilful murder." In the fall as her own best witness, we tried to
tow her to St. John's, but in a heavy breeze of wind and thick snow
we lost her at sea--and with her our own case as well. The law decided
that there was no evidence, and my friend, making out that he had lost
the boat and the insurance, threatened to sue me for the value.

The sequel of the story may as well be told here. A year or so later I
had just returned from Labrador. It used to be said always that our
boat "brought up the keel of the Labrador"; but this year our friend
had remained until every one else had gone. Just as we were about to
leave for England, the papers in St. John's published the news of the
loss of a large foreign-going vessel, laden with fish for the
Mediterranean, near the very spot where our friend lived. On a visit a
little later to the shipping office I found the event described in the
graphic words of the skipper and mate. Our friend the consignee had
himself been on board at the time the "accident" occurred. After
prodigies of valour they had been forced to leave the ship, condemn
her, and put her up for sale. Our friend, the only buyer at such a
time on the coast, had bought her in for eighty dollars.

It was the end of November, and already a great deal of ice had made.
The place was six hundred miles north. The expense of trying to save
the ship would be great. But was she really lost? The heroics sounded
too good to be true. All life is a venture. Why not take one in the
cause of righteo