But for Captain Corbet there was the difficulty. How could he begin? How could he tell the miserable story of his madness and his folly? of the ignorant confidence of the poor boys? of his culpable and guilty negligence, doubly guilty, since he had deserted them not only once in leaving the ship, but a second time in sailing away from the Magdalen Islands? And for what purpose? Even had he reached the ship with the sails, could he really have saved her? Yet here stood his inquisitor, and this time his questions must be answered. “Wal,” began Captain Corbet, in a tremulous voice, “I left em--” “Yes.” “I--I--left--left--em--” “Well?” “I ‘--I--left em, you know.” “So you said three times; but I knew that before. The question is, Where?” “Aboard a ship.” “Aboard a ship?” “Yes.” “What ship? Where? “Somewhar’s about here.” “About here? But what ship?” “She--she--she--was--she--she was--wa-wa-water-logged.” At this Ferguson started to his feet, almost leaping in the air as he did so. For a moment he regarded the unhappy Corbet with an expression of mingled horror and incredulity. “You don’t mean it!” he said, at length. Captain Corbet sighed. “What?” cried Ferguson. “Were you mad? Were they mad? Were you all raving, stark, staring distracted? What were you all thinking of? A water-logged ship! Why, do you mean to stand there in your boots, look me in the face, and tell me that about the boys?” Captain Corbet trembled from head to foot. “A water-logged ship! Why, you might as well tell me you pitched them all overboard and drowned them.” Captain Corbet shuddered, and turned away. Ferguson laid his hand upon his shoulder. “Come,” said he, more quietly, “you couldn’t have been such a fool! You must have considered that the boys had some chance. What sort of a ship was she? What was her cargo?” “Timber,” said the mournful Corbet in a melancholy wail. Ferguson’s face brightened. “You’re sure of that?” “Gospel sure.” “Not deals, now, or laths, or palings, or pickets, or battens, or anything of that sort?” “I saw the timber--white pine.” “Well, that’s better; that gives them a chance. I’ve heard say that a timber ship’ll float for years, if she’s any kind of a ship at all; and so, perhaps, this one is drifting.” Captain Corbet shook his head. “Why not?” asked Ferguson, noticing the movement. “I anchored her.” “Anchored her?” “Yes.” “Anchored what? The timber ship?” “Yes.” “Anchored her? That’s queer! And where?” “Why, somewhars about twenty mile or so back.” “Somewhere about twenty mile or so back!” repeated Ferguson. “Why, the man’s mad! See here, old man; what do you mean by anchoring hereabouts? Did you try soundings?” “Wal, n-n-no.” “Are you aware that the bottom is several miles down below, and that all the chains and ropes of that ship, if they were all tied together in one line, wouldn’t begin to reach half way?”