"An' there the ol' codger was squattin'," Skipper Joe's tale went on, "his ol' face pinched an' woebegone, his bag o' bones wrapped up in his coonskin coat, his pan near flush with the sea, with little black waves already beginnin' t' wash over it.
"A sad sight, believe me! Poor old Skinflint Sam bound out t' sea without hope on a wee pan o' ice!
"'Got any room for me?' says he.
"We ranged alongside.
"'She's too deep as it is,' says Tom. 'I'm wonderful sorry, Skipper Sam.'
"An' he was.
"'Ay,' says Sam; 'you isn't got room for no more. She'd sink if I put foot in her.'
"'Us'll come back,' says Tom.
"'No use, Tom,' says Sam. 'You knows that well enough. 'Tis no place out here for a Ragged Run punt. Afore you could get t' shore an' back night will be down an' this here gale will be a blizzard. You'd never be able t' find me.'
"'I 'low not,' says Tom.