"Saints help us! Am I the captain of this ship, or are you, you long- jawed, squint-eyed, whining son of a wood-chopper you? First it's a French stowaway wants to tell me my business, then it's you. Why doesn't the cabin-boy come up and take charge of the ship? Way there take in the courses, and let the helm go. Give the fool what he wants, and give me a dram for luck." All that day we flew through the water in front of as fierce a south- wester as I was ever out in. The carpenter reported that the pumps were holding their own and no more, but that a dozen cross-seas would split us open like rotten medlar. When night fell, the weather promised to grow worse, and the rain and hail at our backs made it almost impossible to keep up our heads. "It's all very well," said Tim, who had been down to the cabin to inspect the chart, "but this can't go on. We've had water-room all day, but I reckon we are closing in on the land every yard now, and if we don't put out her head we shall find ourselves on the Connemara coast." "Better run for Galway, and say nothing," said I. "Too late now. I wish we had." "Out she goes then," said I; "it's a question between going down where we are or breaking to pieces against Slyne Head." "That's just it," said Tim. "The captain's dead drunk below. Call all hands aft, Barry; let them choose." The men crowded aft, and Tim spoke to them. "We're in for an ugly night, my lads, and we're on a rotten boat. The carpenter says, unless we run before the wind, we shall go to pieces in half-an-hour. I say, if we do run, we shall be on Slyne Head in two hours. Which shall it be? I don't mind much myself." "Put it to the vote," said one. So a vote was taken, and of forty men who voted, twenty-five were for death in two hours, and fifteen for death in an hour. "Very good," said Tim. "Get to your posts, and remember you are under orders till we strike. Then shift for yourselves; and the Lord have mercy on us all!" "Amen!" said the sailors, and returned to their duties. It was a terrible night, and, to make matters worse, as black as pitch. We should not even have the help of daylight for meeting our doom. "Barry," said Tim, "I don't think we shall both perish. If it's I, promise me you will fight for Ireland till she is free." "If you die, Tim, I don't care what I do. I promise. And if I die, promise me--" "Not to go near that girl?" "No," said I, with a groan. "What, then?" "Search below the great hearth at Kilgorman, and do whatever the message you will find there bids you. It is not my message, but our mother's." "I promise that. But hold on now," said he, catching me by the arm, "the old ship's beforehand with us. She's going to pieces before we reach shore."