“Aye, John.” “Near’s I can make out, there’s four or five vessels bearin’ down----” “Close by?” “Pretty close--yes, sir.” “Wait-- I’ll be with you.” Aloft climbed the Skipper. ’Twas a fight to go aloft, such was the force of the wind and so wildly swayed the rigging of the old _Pantheon_. From the deck the crew gazed after the Skipper till they could see his swaying shoulders no more. Soon he came flying down, and after him came John, both by way of the snow-slushed, slippery halyards. “Cut!” roared the Skipper before he had fairly hit the deck--“and at the wheel there, let her pay off.” “Cut--cut!” Away went the twelve-inch rope in stubborn convolutions through the hawse-holes. Around came the _Pantheon_, and by her bow came driving a great white shadow. White sail against white snow on a black night she came driving on, and only a memory of a dim light to mark her when the shadow of the sails could not be made out. “No side-lights--draggin’?” “Aye, and draggin’ fast as some vessels ever sail.” Again a shadow, and from out of the night inarticulate voices--voices that grew in volume, rang loud, louder yet--not so loud, muffled, yet more muffled, quiet again--voices as if from another world, not to be clearly distinguished. “Did anybody catch what they said?” “Nobody? Well, that’s their end.” “God help ’em, yes.” “Sixteen fathom, Skipper.” “Sixteen! We cert’nly can’t be weatherin’ it much.” “Lord, I should say not. And seas to swallow us alive. Looks bad for us, too, don’t it, Skipper?” “Looks bad for who? Dry up! There’s a whole ocean to the east’ard of us--how’s she pointin’?” “Su’the-east by east.” “Su’the-east by east? That the best the old whelp can do? That means she’ll point no better than no’the by west when we jibe her. Try and hold her up.” For a moment the snow lifted and they caught points of light--a red and a green and several white lights. “Most of ’em still to anchor. I hope none of ’em get in our way.” The snow fell again, and once more John Gould went aloft. “One on the starb’d tack, Skipper.” “Aye, don’t mind her--only on the port tack.” “Aye. Here’s one, wherever in the devil she came--hardalee, hardalee!” “Hardalee!” The Skipper jumped to the wheel and helped to hold it down. “Where’s she now?” “I’ve lost her. Thick o’ snow again. Here she is--and another on the other tack.” “God in heaven! one on each tack?” He got no further. A hail came from somewhere aloft, and yet not from the _Pantheon’s_ masthead--a voice, not John’s, called out something or other--a dozen voices called--a roar of voices mingled with the shriek of the wind, and then slipped by another dread shadow. “Fifteen fathom, Skipper.”