He surveyed the clean-swept deck. Disgust overcame him. “If that ain’t a clean job--what? I was hopin’ there’d be somethin’ left, but Lord! not so much as would make a boy’s size match to light a cigarette with. Gurry-kids, booby-hatches--not even a stray floatin’ thole-pin left of the dories.” After which he had time for the watch. “So there you are, eh? And which of you two guardian angels was it left that hatch open? Which? Nobody? It opened itself, I s’pose. It’ll get so a man won’t dare to turn in for a nap ’thout he has a rubber suit on. If we get that cabin dry in a month we’ll be doin’ well. And as fine a fire in the stove----” “Wet the bunks, Skipper?” queried Gillis. “Wet the bunks, you blithering idjit? Wet, is it?” He regarded Gillis more curiously, then gave him up; and stepping on deck, followed by the rest of the cabin gang, mingled in the waist with the crowd from the forec’s’le. All hands gazed disconsolately about the deck, but, wise men all, allowed the Skipper to do the talking. “If this ain’t been the twistedest, unluckiest trip! Five weeks from home, and what’ve we got to show? Lost half our gear, and ’most lost four men and two dories. And now we’ve lost the dories altogether--and every blessed thing that ain’t bolted to her deck. Blessed if I don’t think when I get home I’ll go coastering! Yes, sir, coastering. Cripes, but look--even the rails gone from her! Look, will you, no more than the stanchions left to her.” “A clean deck, Skipper, makes good sailin’,” put in Sam from the gaff. “Does it, you--you-- I b’lieve ’twas you, Sam Leary, left that slide open. A clean deck makes good sailing, do it? Well, try her on sailing, then. Come off that gaff, you menagerie monkey, and give the gang a chance to loose that mains’l. That’s what. Slap it to her and put for home. And _drive_ her. If we can’t do nothing else, we c’n make a good passage of it.” And with everything on, away went the deck-swept _Buccaneer_ to the west’ard. III The master of the bark _Henry Fuller_, mahogany-laden and Boston-bound, and, now to anchor in Chatham Harbor on the Cape Cod shore, stood conning a telegram. “In two hours or so now he ought to be outside and waiting for us. ‘Slip your chains and let her go.’ All right. Only, instead of slipping I’ll see that they part--in the most natural way in the world--and out we’ll go proper.” And out she went, threatening all sorts of destruction, but curiously missing whatever lay in her road. Thus far all had gone well. But the best-laid plans---- Instead of a moderate gale, the master of the _Fuller_ found a blizzard to combat--a northwester, which in winter is always cold. This one was so cold that in the first sweep of it they almost froze up--in fact, came so near to freezing that by midnight all hands were spending more time below than on deck in the effort to keep warm.