As mate formerly, Davy constituted himself skipper now. One after one the men got up and bustled about. Their limbs were wellnigh frozen stiff. "Heave hearty, men; heave and away." All was stir and animation in an instant. Pulling at the ropes, the men had begun to laugh--yes, with their husky, grating, tear-drowned voices even to laugh. "Bear a hand, men. We're drifting fast into the down-stream to Contrary," cried Davy. Then a gruesome sense of the ludicrous took hold of him. It was the swift reaction from solemn thoughts. "Lay on, Quilleash, my man. Why, you're going about like a brewing-pan. What are your arms for, eh?" The old fellow's eyes, that had been dim with tears a moment ago, glistened with grisly mischief. "Who hasn't heard that a Manxman's arms are three legs?" he said, with a hungry smile. How the men laughed! What humor there was now in the haggard old saw! "Where are you for, Davy?" cried one. "Scotland--Shetlands," answered Davy, indefinitely. "Hooraa! Bold fellow. Ha, ha, ha, he." "I've been there before to-day, Davy," said Quilleash; "they're all poor men there; but it's right kind they are. Aw, yes, it's safe and well we'll be when we're there. What's it sayin'?--'When one poor man helps another poor man, God laughs.'" How they worked! In two minutes mainsail and mizzen were up, and they filled away and stood out. But they had drifted into the down-stream, though they knew it not as yet. From the shores of death they had sailed somehow into the waters of life. Hope was theirs once more. They began to talk of what had caused the wind. "It was the blessed St. Patrick," said Killip. St. Patrick was the patron saint of that sea, and Killip was a Catholic and more than half an Irishman. "St. Patrick be--" cried Davy Cain, with a scornful laugh. They got to high words, and at length almost to blows. Old Quilleash had been at the tiller. His grisly face had grown ghastly again. "Drop it, men," he cried, in a voice of fear. "Look yander! D'ye see what's coming?" The men looked toward the west. The long, thin cloud which Danny knew as the cat's-tail was scudding fast in the line of their Starboard quarter. "Make all snug," cried Davy. A storm was coming. It was very near; in ten minutes it was upon them. It was a terrific tempest, and they knew now that they were in the down-stream. The men stared once more into each others' faces. Their quips were gone; their hopeful spirits had broken down. "God, it's running a ten knots' tide," shouted Quilleash. "And we're driving before it--dead on for Peel," answered Davy, with an appalling look of fear toward the west, where the wind was seen to be churning the long waves into foam. Danny saw it all, but there was no agony in his face and no cry of dread on his lips. "I think at whiles I'd like to die in a big sea like that." His despair was courage now. CHAPTER XIX THE WORLD'S WANT IS MEN