“A wonderful long time ago, sir,” Tumm began, “when Jowl was in his prime an’ I was a lad, we was shipped for the Labrador aboard the _Wings o’ the Mornin’_. She was a thirty-ton fore-an’-after, o’ Tuggleby’s build—Tuggleby o’ Dog Harbor—hailin’ from Witch Cove, an’ bound down t’ the Wayward Tickles, with a fair intention o’ takin’ a look-in at Run-by-Guess an’ Ships’ Graveyard, t’ the nor’ard o’ Mugford, if the Tickles was bare. Two days out from Witch Cove, somewheres off Gull Island, an’ a bit t’ the sou’west, we was cotched in a switch o’ weather. ’Twas a nor’east blow, mixed with rain an’ hail; an’ in the brewin’ it kep’ us guessin’ what ’twould accomplish afore it got tired, it looked so lusty an’ devilish. The skipper ’lowed ’twould trouble some stomachs, whatever else, afore we got out of it, for ’twas the first v’y’ge o’ that season for every man Jack o’ the crew. An’ she blowed, an’ afore mornin’ she’d tear your hair out by the roots if you took off your cap, an’ the sea was white an’ the day was black. The _Wings o’ the Mornin’_ done well enough for forty-eight hours, an’ then she lost her grit an’ quit. Three seas an’ a gust o’ wind crumpled her up. She come out of it a wreck—topmast gone, spars shivered, gear in a tangle, an’ deck swep’ clean. Still an’ all, she behaved like a lady; she kep’ her head up, so well as she was able, till a big sea snatched her rudder; an’ then she breathed her last, an’ begun t’ roll under our feet, dead as a log. So we went below t’ have a cup o’ tea. “‘Don’t spare the rations, cook,’ says the skipper. ‘Might as well go with full bellies.’ “The cook got sick t’ oncet. “‘You lie down, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘an’ leave me do the cookin’. Will you drown where you is, cook,’ says he, ‘or on deck?’ “‘On deck, sir,’ says the cook. “I’ll call you, b’y,’ says the skipper. “Afore long the first hand give up an’ got in his berth. He was wonderful sad when he got tucked away. ’Lowed somebody might hear of it. “‘You want t’ be called, Billy?’ says the skipper. “‘Ay, sir; please, sir,’ says the first hand. “‘All right, Billy,’ says the skipper. ‘But you won’t care enough t’ get out.’ “The skipper was next. “‘_You goin’, too!_’ says Jowl. “‘You’ll have t’ eat it raw, lads,’ says the skipper, with a white little grin at hisself. ‘An’ don’t rouse me,’ says he, ‘for I’m as good as dead already.’ “The second hand come down an’ ’lowed we’d better get the pumps goin’. “‘She’s sprung a leak somewheres aft,’ says he.