His father’s faith––his father’s indulgent fatherhood––had provided the all-too-large credit for his ruin.
“Wisht she’d ’urry up,” Bagg sighed.
“Just now,” Archie declared, looking Skipper Bill in the eye, “it’s up to Billy Topsail.”
“Billy’s a good boy,” said the skipper.
Little Donald North––who had all along been a thoroughly serviceable but inconspicuous member of the crew––began to shed unwilling tears.
“Wisht she’d ’urry up,” Bagg whimpered.
“There she is!” Skipper Bill roared.
It was true. There she was. Far off at sea––away beyond Grief Head at the entrance to Hook-and-Line––the smoke of a steamer surely appeared, a black cloud in the misty, glowering day. It was the Grand Lake. There was no other steamer on the coast. Cap’n Hand––Archie’s friend, Cap’n Hand, with whom he had 279 sailed on the sealing voyage of the stout old Dictator––was in command. She would soon make harbour. Archie’s load vanished; from despair he was lifted suddenly into a wild hilarity which nothing would satisfy but a roaring wrestle with Skipper Bill. The Grand Lake would presently be in; she would proceed full steam to Jolly Harbour, she would pass a line to the Spot Cash, she would jerk the little schooner from her rocky berth on Blow-Me-Down, and presently that selfsame wilful little craft would be legging it for St. John’s.
But was it the Grand Lake?
“Lads,” the skipper declared, when the steamer was in view, “it sure is the Grand Lake.”