Boldly he kept it on her till she staggered, But still the wind increased; it grew, it grew, Darkening the sky, making the water haggard; Full of small snow the mighty wester blew. "More fun for little fish-hooks," sighed the crew. They eyed the taut topgallants stiff like steel; A second hand was ordered to the wheel. The Captain eyed her aft, sucking his lip, Feeling the sail too much, but yet refraining From putting hobbles on the leaping ship, The glad sea-shattering stallion, halter-straining, Wind-musical, uproarious, and complaining; But, in a gust, he cocked his finger, so: "You'd better take them off, before they go." All saw. They ran at once without the word "Leeay! Leeay!" Loud rang the clew-line cries; Sam in his bunk within the half-deck heard. Stirred in his sleep, and rubbed his drowsy eyes. "There go the lower to'gallants." Against the skies Rose the thin bellying strips of leaping sail. The Dauber was the first man over the rail. Three to a mast they ran; it was a race. "God!" said the Mate; "that Dauber, he can go." He watched the runners with an upturned face Over the futtocks, struggling heel to toe, Up to the topmast cross-trees into the blow Where the three sails were leaping. "Dauber wins!" The yards were reached, and now the race begins. Which three will furl their sail first and come down? Out to the yard-arm for the leech goes one, His hair blown flagwise from a hatless crown, His hands at work like fever to be done. Out of the gale a fiercer fury spun. The three sails leaped together, yanking high, Like talons darting up to clutch the sky. The Dauber on the fore-topgallant yard Out at the weather yard-arm was the first To lay his hand upon the buntline-barred Topgallant yanking to the wester's burst; He craned to catch the leech; his comrades cursed; One at the buntlines, one with oaths observed, "The eye of the outer jib-stay isn't served." "No," said the Dauber. "No," the man replied. They heaved, stowing the sail, not looking round, Panting, but full of life and eager-eyed; The gale roared at them with its iron sound. "That's you," the Dauber said. His gasket wound Swift round the yard, binding the sail in bands; There came a gust, the sail leaped from his hands, So that he saw it high above him, grey, And there his mate was falling; quick he clutched An arm in oilskins swiftly snatched away. A voice said "Christ!" a quick shape stooped and touched. Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was smutched With vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled, And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled,