At length, seeing that it was hopeless to expect her owners to furnish the barge with a new suit of sails, he began to save his money. In a year’s time he had laid up enough to supply them at his own expense. It seemed like a touch of the old seafaring activity to be drawing up their specifications; he ordered thick duck and stout bolt-ropes, for this was to be a suit of real heavy-weather sails. When, one afternoon under the coal chute at Perth Amboy, he was able to stow away this strong white canvas in the lazaret, together with a couple of coils of first-grade Manila for reeving off new sheets and halyards, he felt that he could go to sea again with a clear conscience. That evening he sat for a long while alone in the cabin. The interest of looking over and stowing away the sails had passed; he saw the truth now, saw how things really stood. Buying a suit of sails for a coal barge: was it for this that he had spent his hard apprenticeship, had learned and practised the intricate lore of the sea? He could remember greater triumphs. For two hours of grim thought he sat with hands clenched on the arms of the chair, facing the world’s defeat without surrender. In his heart of heart he knew that he had not failed. He had kept respect and dignity, saved his honour, been true to himself through it all. He sat on into the night; the storied cabin enclosed him as if with loving arms; slowly, as the mood of revolt wore away, his mind drifted back into the old days. He remembered how his wife used to sit there beside him, on evenings at sea, busy with her sewing; he remembered how little Frankie used to come running in. These things had happened so often, so naturally. But not for a long, long time.... Gone with the era, gone with manhood and success, gone with the further use of life’s endeavour. The old man’s head fell back against the chair; tears streamed down his cheeks and sank into his beard. "What have I done?" he cried in agony. "I cannot understand it. What have I done?" *VII* Two more years passed by, and winter came on. It was the hardest winter in a decade along the Atlantic Coast. Beginning in the latter part of November, snowstorm after snowstorm struck in from sea in quick succession; one of those easterly spells that, to the mariner, seems destined to hang on for ever. Early in January, the wind backed for a few days into the northwest, and the harsh weather offered a temporary respite. Seizing the opportunity, three heavily laden coal barges, in tow of a powerful seagoing tugboat, set out from Hampton Roads bound for Boston. The old _Viking_ was the last barge of the string.