Tide and sea were such that there was no use trying to row against it, or we would not have waited at all; but we waited, and as we waited the wind, which had been southerly, went into the east and snow fell; but for not more than a half-hour, when it cleared. We stood up and looked about us. There was no vessel or other dory in sight. We said no word to each other of it, but the while we waited further, all the while with a wind'ard eye to the bad little seas, we talked. "Did you ever think of dying, Simon?" Hugh Glynn said after a time. "Can a man follow the winter trawling long and not think of it at times?" I answered. "And have you fear of it, Simon?" "I know I have no love for it," I said. "But do you ever think of it, you?" "I do--often. With the double tides working to draw me to it, it would be queer enough if now and again I did not think of it." "And have you fear of it?" "Of not going properly--I have, Simon." And after a little: "And I've often thought it a pity for a man to go and nothing come of his going. Would you like the sea for a grave, Simon?" "I would not," I answered. "Nor me, Simon. A grand, clean grave, the ocean, and there was a time I thought I would; but not now. The green grave ashore, with your own beside you--a man will feel less lonesome, or so I've often thought, Simon. "I've often thought so," he went on, his eyes now on watch for the bad seas and again looking wistful-like at me. "I'd like to lie where my wife and boy lie, she to one side and the lad to the other, and rise with them on Judgment Day. I've a notion, Simon, that with them to bear me up I'd stand afore the Lord with greater courage. For if what some think is true--that it's those we've loved in this world will have the right to plead for us in the next--then, Simon, there will be two to plead for me as few can plead." He stood up and looked around. "It is a bad sea now, but worse later, and a strong breeze brewing, Simon"; and drew from an inside pocket of his woollen shirt a small leather note-book. He held it up for me to see, with the slim little pencil held by little loops along the edges. "'Twas hers. I've a pocket put in every woollen shirt I wear to sea so 'twill be close to me. There's things in it she wrote of our little boy. And I'm writing here something I'd like you to be witness to, Simon." He wrote a few lines. "There, Simon. I've thought often this trip how 'tis hard on John Snow at his age to have to take to fishing again. If I hadn't lost Arthur, he wouldn't have to. I'm willing my vessel to John Snow. Will you witness it, Simon?" I signed my name below his; and he set the book back in his inside pocket. "And you think our time is come, skipper?" I tried to speak quietly, too. "I won't say that, Simon, but foolish not to make ready for it." I looked about when we rose to the next sea for the vessel. But no vessel. I thought it hard. "Had you no distrust of Saul Haverick this morning?" I asked him.