The old man bit off a chew. “It was too bad, Skip, that he went, but it wuz his own fault. He niver lashed hisself to the wheel-box after you warned him. He sh’d ha’ known better—he’s bin at sea a long while and he knowed what was liable to happen. Ef he’d have taken a turn with a bit o’ line around his waist, he’d have bin here to-day ’stead of over the side. Don’t you worry, Skip,” and he patted him on the shoulder, “it ain’t your fault, and nobody’s sayin’ it is. Good thing he was a single man. Now, poor Sanders ... that’s bad. They had to take his leg off to save his life. He’ll pull ’raound, but he’s got six of a family to keep, an’ I cal’late he won’t want to go to sea any more after what he went through. And I don’t blame him!”
Feeling himself again, Donald went into Heneker’s office to discuss the chance of getting command of the Alameda for the spring fishery.
“I’d like to give her to ye, son,” said the old man, “but Tommy Himmelman’ll be goin’ back in her.” He noticed the disappointment in McKenzie’s eyes, and he added encouragingly, “I’m plannin’ to build another vessel this summer which Himmelman’ll take next year, an’ by that time, I can promise you first chance on the Alameda. Y’know, son, you’re young yet. Put in another season in the dory and learn all ye can. It’ll be good training.” He turned and picked up a letter from his desk. “Here’s a letter from the insurance company what has the policy on the Alameda. They’re sending you a gold watch for bringin’ her in, and well they might, for it’s saved them a good four thousand dollars anyway.”
When he left the office, Donald muttered grimly, “A gold watch? Very nice, but a gold watch will not help poor Williams or Sanders. I’d give a thousand gold watches to see them as they were!”
For a couple of days he remained at home helping his mother and cutting wood for her summer firing, then Mr. Nickerson sent for him to get Judson’s schooner ready for the spring fishery. He spent a week working on her when Judson himself arrived from Halifax.
“By gorry, Don,” remarked the skipper after the greetings were over, “but that was one devil of a session you had after you left me. A dirty easterly! We get one every winter, but that one was a terror. Awful sea, they tell me, running everyways and piling aboard. That’s what does the damage, and no vessel can avoid them. So Caleb Heneker can’t give you the Alameda this season? Oh, well, you’re young yet, and another summer in the dory won’t hurt you.”
“I suppose you saw Helena in Halifax,” observed Donald. “And Ruth? How are they?”
The other made a gesture. “By Jingo, I nearly forgot my message. I’ve to tell you they’re both tickled to death to hear of your escape, but Ruth wants to know why you did not write her since you came in. She thinks you are most unfriendly.”
McKenzie smiled. “I’ll write to-night,” he said simply; glad that she resented his neglect. He had not felt like writing after his disastrous trip, and the piece of convent-made lace which he had purchased for her in Calle O’Reilly, Havana, had been ruined by salt water and was no longer presentable.
When mid-March came around, the Spring fleet were swinging off for the Banks again and Nickerson’s schooner, the Windrush was about ready for sea, with an eight-dory gang. Donald was going dory-mates with old Archie Surrette.