the
cutter had been paid off since the animal had been brought on board,
there was no man in the ship who could positively detail, from his own
knowledge, the facts connected with his first appearance--there was only
tradition, and, to solve this question, to tradition they were obliged
to repair.

"Now, Bill Spurey," said Coble, "you know more about this matter than
any one, so just spin us the yarn, and then we shall be able to talk the
matter over soberly."

"Well," replied Bill Spurey, "you shall have it just as I got it word
for word, as near as I can recollect. You know I wasn't in the craft
when the thing came on board, but Joe Geary was, and it was one night
when we were boozing over a stiff glass at the new shop there, the
Orange Boven, as they call it, at the Pint at Portsmouth--and so you
see, falling in with him, I wished to learn something about my new
skipper, and what sort of a chap I should have to deal with. When I
learnt all about _him_, I'd half-a-dozen minds to shove off again, but
then I was adrift, and so I thought better of it. It won't do to be nice
in peace times you know, my lads, when all the big ships are rotting in
Southampton and Cinque Port muds. Well, then, what he told me I
recollect as well--ay, every word of it--as if he had whispered it into
my ear but this minute. It was a blustering night, with a dirty
southwester, and the chafing of the harbour waves was thrown up in
foams, which the winds swept up the street, they chasing one another as
if they were boys at play. It was about two bells in the middle watch,
and after our fifth glass, that Joe Geary said as this:

"It was one dark winter's night when we were off the Texel, blowing
terribly, with the coast under our lee, clawing off under storm canvas,
and fighting with the elements for every inch of ground, a hand in the
chains, for we had nothing but the lead to trust to, and the vessel so
flogged by the waves, that he was lashed to the rigging, that he might
not be washed away; all of a sudden the wind came with a blast loud
enough for the last trump, and the waves roared till they were hoarser
than ever; away went the vessel's mast, although there was no more
canvas on it than a jib pocket-handkerchief, and the craft rolled and
tossed in the deep troughs for all the world like a wicked man dying in
despair; and then she was a wreck, with nothing to help us but God
Almighty, fast borne down upon the sands which the waters had