“‘I hates to.’ “‘What do you mean?’ says I. “‘Why, damme! Tumm,’ says he, ‘I mean that you can get _off_. What _else_ would I mean?’ “Lord! I didn’t know! “‘Well?’ says he. “‘It ain’t very kind,’ says I. “‘What would _you_ do,’ says he, ‘if _you_ was me?’ “I give un a look that told un, an’ ’twas against my will I done it. “‘Well,’ says he, ‘you can’t blame me, then.’ “No more I could. “‘Now I’ll get the grub from the forecastle, lad,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll cast off. The _Wings o’ the Mornin’_ isn’t good for more’n half an hour more. You bide on deck, Tumm, an’ leave the swine t’ me.’ Then he went below. “‘All right,’ says he, when he come on deck. ‘Haul in the line.’ We lashed a water-cask an’ a grub-box t’ the raft. ‘Now, Tumm,’ says he, ‘we can take it easy. We won’t be in no haste t’ leave, for I ’low ’tis more comfortable here. Looks t’ me like more moderate weather. I feels pretty good, Tumm, with all the work done, an’ nothin’ t’ do but get aboard.’ He sung the long-metre doxology. ‘Look how the wind’s dropped!’ says he. ‘Why, lad, we might have saved the _Wings o’ the Mornin’_ if them pigs had done their dooty last night. But ’tis too late now—an’ it’s _been_ too late all day long. We’ll have a spell o’ quiet,’ says he, ‘when the sea goes down. Looks t’ me like the v’y’ge might be pleasant, once we gets through the night. I ’low the stars’ll be peepin’ afore mornin’. It’ll be a comfort t’ see the little mites. I loves t’ know they’re winkin’ overhead. They makes me think o’ God. You isn’t got a top-coat, is you, lad?’ says he. ‘Well, you better get it, then. I’ll trust you in the forecastle, Tumm, for I knows you wouldn’t wrong me, an’ you’ll need that top-coat bad afore we’re picked up. An’ if you got your mother’s Bible in your nunny-bag, or anything like that you wants t’ save, you better fetch it,’ says he. ‘I ’low we’ll get out o’ this mess, an’ we don’t want t’ have anything t’ regret.’ “I got my mother’s Bible. “‘Think we better cast off?’ says he. “I did. The _Wings o’ the Mornin’_ was ridin’ too low an’ easy for me t’ rest; an’ the wind had fell to a soft breeze, an’ they wasn’t no more rain, an’ no more dusty spray, an’ no more breakin’ waves. They was a shade on the sea—the first shadow o’ the night—t’ hide what we’d leave behind. “‘We better leave her,’ says I. “‘Then all aboard!’ says he. “An’ we got aboard, an’ cut the cable, an’ slipped away on a soft, black sea, far into the night.... An’ no man ever seed the _Wings o’ the Mornin’_ again.... An’ me an Jowl was picked up, half dead o’ thirst an’ starvation, twelve days later, by ol’ Cap’n Loop, o’ the Black Bay mail-boat, as she come around Toad Point, bound t’ Burnt Harbor.... * * * * *