“Forty winters I’ve been comin’ to Georges, and this is the first time ever I see that. There’ll be people that’ll say it never happened--that it couldn’t have happened. But there’s the cable around her bows, a full turn, to prove she went clean over--down one side and up the other. We’re blessed lucky to be alive, that’s what I say.” “That’s what we are,” affirmed Jerry, and had another look for himself. And they all had another look for themselves. “Blessed lucky,” they all agreed. “And what’ll we do now, Skipper?” “Do?” He looked around and saw only the stumps of masts projecting above her deck--no sails, no rigging, nothing. The bowsprit, even, was gone and their chain parted--and the north shoal of Georges bearing twenty miles to leeward. “Give her the other anchor, and whilst we’re layin’ to that we’ll see what we can do.” That night they hung grimly on to the other anchor. In the morning the Skipper chewed it over. “We can’t lay here forever--that’s certain. We must try and get her out. I don’t like that shoal to looard. With this one there’s no tellin’ what she’ll take it into her head to do--to go adrift maybe, and then it’s all swallowed up we’ll be in short order.” So they prepared to work her out. For masts they could do no better than take the pen-boards out of the hold, split them up and fish them together. They were of two-inch stock, and when they had used them all up they made but sorry-looking spars. For sails they shook the bedding out of their mattresses, took the ticking and their blankets and sewed them together with pieces of oilskins by way of patchings. There was some record-breaking sewing aboard the _Celestine_ that morning, for all were thinking of the shoal under their lee. They set up the pen-boards by way of masts, laced the bedding and blankets to them for sails, and then they had it--a medley of colors! Blue and white striped ticks, green and gold and red blankets--the masterpieces of fond wives ashore--and two crazy-quilts. One particular crazy-quilt the Skipper eyed with regret. “I mind the night the wife won that at the church fair. A hundred and fourteen chances she took--at ten cents a chance--me payin’ for them. Nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces in it. ‘There’ll be the fine ornament for your bunk, Colie,’ says she to me. ‘And warm, too,’ she says, ‘on a winter’s day.’ ’Tis tears she’d be sheddin’ could she see it this winter’s day, usin’ it by way of a cloth to a fores’l up where the single reef cringle should be.” They spread them all at last, brought her head to and warped in the anchor. “And now, you slippery-elm divil, sail! Sail, you black, fatherless, left-handed, double left-handed divil, sail!”