"But the storm done 'em dirt. The wind came on to blow harder'n ever, an' pretty soon the sea she just picked up the ship an' hauled her off and—crickety-crack!—she went slam-bang to pieces on the Old Harry Shoals. Didn't have no more chance than a paper bag at a picnic. No sir, there weren't one man saved out o' the whole crowd.
"So there was them six people stuck up on top o' the rock."
"Did they have to stay there all winter?"
"Now you wait a minute. I'm a-tellin' you. Some time 'long in April there was a hunter come that way duck-shootin'.
"He shot a duck an' it dropped in the big waves runnin' and jumpin' on the beach.
"He got out o' the boat to get it—an' it weren't there!
"'Mercy on us!' says he. 'I shot that duck just as sure as I'm soaked clean through. It musta fell right here. What's become o' it? Where's it gone to?'
"He looked round and looked round like Robinson Crusoe huntin' fer somebody. He looked up an' he looked down, an' it wa'n't no use. Wa'n't no duck there.
"'It musta been magic,' he says. 'Magic. Somethin' queer about this place!'
"Then he sees little pieces o' wood churnin' around in the foam.