A dozen ordinary skippers sailed past before a famous fisherman at length came in. Everybody knew him--a dog, a high-liner, truly a master mariner. A murmur went up. "There's the boy," said Tommie Clancy. "I mind last summer when he came into Souris just such a day as this, but with more wind stirring. 'Twas Fourth of July and we had all our flags to the peak--and some fine patriotic fights going on ashore that day--our flag and the English. The harbor was jammed with seiners and fresh-fishers. You couldn't see room for a dory, looking at 'em end on. But that don't jar Tom O'Donnell. What does he do? He just comes in and sails around the fleet like a cup-defender on parade--and every bit of canvas he had aboard flying--only his crew had to hang onto the ring-bolts under the wind'ard rail. Well, he comes piling in, looks the fleet over, sizes up everything, picks out a nice spot as he shoots around, sails out the harbor again--clean out, yes sir, clean out--comes about--and it blowing a living gale all the time--shoots her in again, dives across a line of us, and fetches her up standing. We could've jumped from our rail to his in jack-boots, he was that close to us and another fellow the other side. Slid her in like you slide the cover into a diddy box. Yes, sir, and that's the same lad you see coming along now--Tom O'Donnell and his Colleen Bawn." He certainly was coming on now, and a fine working vessel he had. She showed it in every move. She came around like a twin-screw launch, picked out her berth like she had intelligence in her eyes, made for it, swirled, fluttered like a bird, felt with her claws for the ground underneath, found it, gripped it, swayed, hung on, and at last settled gently in her place. There was no more jar to the whole thing than if she had been a cat-boat in a summer breeze. "Pretty, pretty, pretty," you could hear the gang along our rail. "They talk about knockabout racing craft," said Clancy, "but did y'ever see anything drop to a berth slicker than that? And that's a vessel you c'n go to sea in, and in the hardest winter gale that ever blew you c'n turn in when your watch is done and have a feeling of comfort." "Where's the steam trawler, the porgy boat, we saw yesterday?" "Put into Chincoteague most likely--nearer than here." "That's what we'll have to come to yet--steamers, and go on wages like a waiter in a hotel." "Yes," said Clancy, "I s'pose so, but with vessels like we got and the seamen sailing out of Gloucester we'll stave 'em off a long time yet, and even as it is, give me a breeze and a vessel like this one under us and we'll beat out all the steam fishermen that ever turned a screw."