ror of a hungry, crunching tooth,
fixed in the vessel's side, that of the iceberg, lying black in the
moonlight like a great coal crystal, grimly awaiting our approach, but
the reality, as well as the figment, had disappeared when I emerged at
sunrise from the suffocating cabin, to the atmosphere of the cool and
quiet quarter-deck, which had just undergone its matutinal.

Armed with an orange and a biscuit for physical refreshment, I depended
on sea and sky for my mental entertainment; and in my hand I bore a
slender scroll, destined as a propitiatory offering to our offended
helmsman.

I was glad to find again at the wheel our pilot of yesterday.

"Your iceberg has disappeared, Mr. Garth," I said, as I extended to him
the sketch I had made of his noble _physique_ the day before, "and here
is a picture for your wife, which she will see was not drawn for fun.
Women are sharper than men about such matters. There, I bestow it not
without regret." He received my offering with a smile, and nod of his
great curly head, opened it, gazed long and seriously upon it, and, with
the single word "Good," rolled it up again, and consigned it to some
bosom pocket in his flannel shirt, into which it seemed to glide as a
telescope into its case, revealing, as he did so, glimpses of a hairy
breast, and vigorous chest, more admirable for strength than beauty,
certainly.

"I will keep it there," he said, "young miss," pressing it closely
against his side with his colossal hand, "until I get safe home to the
Jarseys, and to Sall, or go to Davy's locker, one or other, but which it
will be, young gal--young miss, I should be saying--is not for me to
know."

"Nor for any one," I rejoined, solemnly; "all rests with God."

"With God and our engineer," he resumed, tersely; "them sails is of
little account, now the mainmast is struck away; them floppen
petticoats, wat the wind loves to play in and out, layin' along like a
lazy lubber that it is, and leaving its work for others to do. It was a
noble mast, though, while it stood--and you could smell the turpentine
blood in its heart to the very last. It was as limber as a sapling, and
never growed brittle, like some wood, with age and dryness. No storm
could splinter it, and it would fling itself over into the high waves
sometimes, rayther than snap and lash them like a whip. But there it
lies, burned with the fire of heaven's wrath, at last, and leaving its
fires of hell behind, in the heart