“‘My chance,’ said Dan—‘my chance, ain’t it, Martin?’
“‘Yes,’ says I to Dan, and looking back at it now I say, ‘God forgive you, Martin Carr,’ and yet ’twarn’t no fault of mine.
“Out went the dory, and when she hung for a second Dan swung himself after it. He made it, and called, ‘Pay out that line!’ and dug in with the oars. We could just see him. We were still paying out the line, we could still hear his voice, when ‘Haul in! I broke an oar!’ he called.
“‘Haul in!’ said I; but when we went to haul in there was nothing to haul—the line had parted.
“‘God, he’s gone!’ said somebody.
“‘That’s what he is,’ said a voice beside me—‘I was bound he would be.’
“’Twas the Skipper. From by the rail he crept up to me with a knife-blade shining—a bait-knife it was, the same he’d had all night. And then I knew what it meant—he had cut the line. I stood away from him first, then I grabbed him and picked him up, and had a mind to heave him over the rail, and then— I don’t know why— I didn’t. I dropped him on the deck. ‘You’ll get yours before this night’s over,’ I said.
“‘A devil of a lot I care,’ he said.
“The rest of them, or at least those that warn’t too busy with the next dory or trying to look out for themselves, called out to ask what was wrong with the two of us. I didn’t answer, nor did the Skipper.
“Dan was the first to go that night. We kept trying to launch dories—trying, but losing them—smashed to kindling-wood they were, until the whole nine of them were gone. During that time four men were washed over. One, with a line about him, made a desperate try, but was hauled back dead, I mind. We laid his body on the house, and afterward, when I went to look for it, it was gone—swept over. The seas were wicked.