"Wa'al..." said the captain, "likely he knowed what he was a-doin' on. Chances air he put into Chatham when he see what was goin' on. Ye kain't tell nothin' 'baout the weathure this time o' year. The day starts in ca'am 'n' peaceful, 'n' the glass nailed tha'ar, 'n' afore sundaown it's blowin' the paint off'n her. Got a heap o' respec' fer saou'easters this time o' year, I hev." Applebo chatted for awhile with the old man, the crew regarding with much curiosity the nearly nude, beautifully muscled figure standing by the rail apparently indifferent to the gusty wind and the drizzle driving against his gleaming limbs. It was about the end of August and not cold, but a gale off Cape Cod is never really tropical in temperature, and the fishermen were in heavy oilskins over their working-clothes. Applebo finally wished them good-day, then made a clean dive off the rail, and swam back to the yawl. He found the Finn squatting on the forward deck, staring straight into the wind's eye. A gale always excited this peculiar individual. The dangers of fog, tide, and reef had no apparent effect on the Finn, but as soon as it began to blow he underwent a notable change. It made no difference whether the yawl was hove to in a squall, riding to a sea-anchor, or safely moored in a snug, land-locked harbour; the result upon the Finn was the same. During a storm he had always the intent, expectant air of one awaiting some momentous event. Often he would pause in what he was doing, as though to peer and listen, always watching the direction from which the wind came, sometimes talking to himself, nodding his head, and at times bursting into strange, wild little snatches of song, chanted in a beautiful tenor voice. Applebo once asked him what he heard in the wind, and he answered--"The voices of the newly dead." This, and the peculiar and uncanny way the man had of cocking his head and peering suddenly with one of his divergent eyes at some object either in the sea or sky, might have affected some people most disagreeably. Applebo was merely amused and found his behaviour rather entertaining. As he swam alongside and hove himself aboard, the Finn did not appear to see him. The man was squatting like a frog against the windlass. He had on an old oilskin overcoat, but his head was bare, the long black hair tossing in the wind and the fine drizzle beating into a face which was of the pale drab of the belly of a fish. The lips were muttering a steady patter. "What are you doing there?" Applebo demanded. The beautiful, lustrous eyes turned to him slowly. "Praying, master," came the soft-voiced answer. "For whom are you praying?" "For those about to die." Applebo dressed, and was refreshing himself with tea and macaroons when he heard a roaring sound close aboard, and poked his head up through the hatch to see a fisherman foaming in, her foresail in rags. Behind her came another, and a little later still another.