“What do you make of it, Tommy?” the skipper asked.
The clerk stared into the mist. “Pony Islands, skipper, sure enough,” said he.
“Little Pony or Big?”
In a rift of the mist a stretch of rocky coast lay exposed.
“Little Pony,” said the clerk.
“Ay,” the skipper agreed: “an’ ’twas Little Pony, easterly shore,” he added, his voice dwindling away, “that Tom Tulk advised.”
“An’ about the tenth o’ the month,” Tommy Bull added.