“Gosh!” exclaimed Jim. “You mean you rowed a whaleboat all the way from Bermuda to New Bedford? How far is it?”
“Me, I don’ know, mebbe three, four hundred mile,” replied Manuel.
“Bout eight hundred,” volunteered Cap’n Pem. “Purty consid’ble of a row, eh?”
“Shure, ’twas thot!” exclaimed Mike. “B’gorra Misther Potter, did yez iver see a sphirit at say?”
“Nope!” replied the other. “Derned if I hev, ’ceptin’ in bottles.”
“Ah, gwan wid yez!” went on the bo’sun. “’Tis not that kind Oim afther mainin’ at all, at all. An’ if yez hasn’t, thin, b’gorra, Oive seen somethin’ phwat yez haven’t an’, be the Saints, ’tis a wonder ye’ll admit it. Would yez loike to hear about ut, b’ys?”
“Yes, indeed, Mike,” said Tom with interest. “Go ahead and tell the yarn. I’ll bet it’s a corker.”
“Will, thin,” began Mike as he stuffed a load of tobacco into his pipe. “Oi said ’twas a sphirit, but I dunno if ’twas aither—but ’twas somethin’ quare an’ sooper-natural-loike. But shure an’ Oim gittin’ off me course so Oi’ll ’bout ship an’ be afther sthartin’ on a new tack. ’Twas ’bout thirty year ago, afore ships wuz a-talkin’ wid woireless, ye moind, an’ Oi wuz furrst mate av a wee shmall staymer what wuz afther tradin’ ’twixt Cuby an’ Noo Yorrk, an’ proud Oi wuz to be a threadin’ the bridge wid the best av thim, Oi’ll tell yez. Will, wan thrip, phwat did the skipper do but git took wid the yaller Jack an’ doi,—may his soul rist in pace. An’ b’gob, there Oi wuz, masther av a trim little ship as iver wuz. Faith though, ’twas a grrand falin’, but with a hape o’ raysponsibility, b’gorra. Thin, wan night, Oi was a-sittin’ in me cabin on the bridge wid the second mate on watch an’ a thinkin’ o’ the foine future Oi’d be afther havin’—niver dramin’, b’gob, thot Oi’d iver be afther a-killin’ say iliphants in the back o’ beyont—bad cess to the dhrink,—whin all av a suddin Oi sees a figure a-sthandin’, or a-flyin’, or a floatin’—faith, Oi dunno which—in the air fornist the port bow o’ the ship. B’ the Saints! ’Twas dramin’ Oi thought Oi wuz, an’ Oi lept up an’ rubbed me ois an’ says Oi to mesilf, says Oi, ‘Sure Mike is it sayin’ things ye arre or is it not.’ But b’gorra, there she wuz—for ’twas a woman sphirit she wuz—a floatin’ or a-flyin’ along an’ a beckonin’ to me wid her arrm. Says Oi to the secon’ mate’ say Oi; ‘Misther Thompson,’ says Oi, ‘will yez look to two p’ints offen the port bow,’ says Oi, ‘an’ tell me do yez see annythin’.’ ‘Aye Sir,’ says he, ‘Oi see a cloud,’ says he, ‘an’ nothin’ more,’ says he. So thin Oi thinks to mesilf; ’tis a hallo-sue-nation ye’re havin’, think Oi, an’ Oi looks the other way an’, Saints presarve me, if there wuzn’t the colleen again, an’ as Oi sees her she sort o’ flits acrost me bows an’ off to port agin, a-beckonin’-loike all the toime. So Oi says to meself, says Oi, ‘Shure Mike, ’tis a predomition ye’re afther havin’ or a message o’ some sort an’ the spirit’s been sent yez to guide yez.’ So Oi says to the second, says Oi, ‘Mr. Thompson, starboard the helm a bit,’ says Oi, an’ as the bow swings to port Oi sees the spirit a-swingin’ a bit further ’til me bow’s a-headin’ six p’ints off me course, an’ thin the spirit sthops movin’ an’ jist floats aisyloike over me bow, so Oi says, ‘Steady as she is, Mr. Thompson,’ an’ bein’ a good sailorman he niver asks why in blazes Oi’m runnin’ off me course six pints. For two hours we run an’ thin, b’gorra, the lookout sings out, ‘Ship afire ahead!’ an’ there, plain as the nose on me face, Oi could see the glow o’ a burnin’ ship, an’ with that, the spirit disappears an’ Oi know she’s been a-guidin’ av me to save thim that’s on the burnin’ ship. Full spheed ahead, Oi rings, an’ nearer and nearer we comes, an’ we kin see the flames o’ the burnin’ ship an’ her sphars an’ all. An’ b’gorra, through me glasses Oi sees folks a-sthandin’ aft wid the flames not twenty fate from thim an’ no boats over at all, at all. ’Twas a race fer loife, b’gorra, for me staymer was a shakin’ an’ a throbbin’ what wid the spade av her fit to bust, an’ the flames a-racin’ aft on the barrk. Thin, as I get widin’ hailin’ distance, a man sings out that there’s powder aboard an’ the hooker’ll be a blowin’ up in a minute more. Shure, an’ may Hivin help me, if Oi wuz not in a foine fix! Shure, if Oi wint alongside to save the sowls aboard the barrk ’twould be loike Oi wud lose me ship, an’ if Oi didn’t ’twould be nothin’ short o’ murtherin’ the folks on the barrk, an divvil a bit o’ toime wuz there to be a lowerin’o’ me boats. ’Twas between the divvil an’ the dape say, Oi wuz, wid the divvil holdin’ the thrump carrds. But b’jabbers, Oi made up me mind an’ do yez know phwat Oi did?”
“No,” cried Tom excitedly. “What did you do?”
“Phwat would yez do, Misther Potter?” queried the bo’sun.