"First time I've ever heard of it," Frank said. "When were you ever in a shipwreck that cost ninety-four lives?"
"Off Cape Cod in '23," declared Chet dramatically. "It was the night the good ship Brannigan went down with all on board. Ah, but that was a terrible night. As long as I live, I'll never forget it! Never!"
"I don't think you even remember it," sniffed Frank.
But Chet went on, getting up steam.
"The Brannigan left Boston harbor at four bells and there was a dirty sea running, with a stiff breeze from the north. I had booked my passage early in the morning, but as sailing time approached, my friends beseeched me not to go. 'It is death!' they told me. But I merely laughed. 'Chet Morton is not afraid of storms. I shall sail.' The Brannigan was not out of sight of shore before the storm broke in all its fury. Thunder and lightning and a roaring rain! It was the worst storm in twenty years, the captain said. The passengers huddled in their cabins, sick with fear. Some of them were seasick too. The storm grew worse."
"This sounds like a big whopper," declared Joe, interested in spite of himself.
Chet's face was solemn as he continued.
"Night fell. The waves rolled over the staunch little ship. The helmsman clung to the wheel. Down in the lee scuppers—whatever they are—the first mate lay with a broken leg. Down in the forecastle the crew talked mutiny. Then came a dreadful cry. 'A leak! The ship has sprung a leak!' And, by golly, it had. The skipper came down from the bridge. 'Take to the boats,' he cried. 'Women and children first.' But the Brannigan was sinking fast by the stern. Before they could launch a single boat the ship sank swiftly, and eighty-five people went to a watery grave."
He shook his head sadly, as though reflecting on this horrible tragedy.
"Eighty-five?" said Frank. "A little while ago you told us ninety-four."