“But ’twas not the skipper’s order—’twas that man’s horrid cry that sent un over the side. They tumbled into the punts and pushed off. It made me shiver, sir, t’ see the fright they was in.
“‘Stand by t’ get out o’ this!’ says the skipper.
“’Twas haul on this an’ haul on that, an’ ’twas heave away with the anchor, ’til we was well under weigh with all canvas spread. We beat out, takin’ wonderful chances in the tickle, an’ stood off t’ the sou’east. That night, when we was well off, the cook says t’ me that he thinks he’ve nerve enough t’ be boiled in his own pot in a good cause, but he’ve no mind t’ make a Fox’s martyr of hisself for the likes o’ Skipper Jim.
“‘Cook,’ says I, ‘we’ll leave this here ship at the next port.’
“‘Docks,’ says he, ‘’tis a clever thought.’
“’Twas Skipper Jim’s trick at the wheel, an’ I loafed aft t’ have a word with un—keepin’ well t’ win’ward all the time; for he’d just come up from the forecastle.
“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, ‘we’re found out.’
“‘What’s found out?’ says he.
“‘The case o’ smallpox for’ard,’ says I. ‘What you goin’ t’ do about it?’
“‘Do!’ says he. ‘What’ll I do? Is it you, Docks, that’s askin’ me that? Well,’ says he, ‘Jagger an’ me fixed that all up when I seed him there t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle. They’s three ports above Harbour Deep, an’ I’m goin’ t’ trade un all. ’Twill be a v‘y’ge by that time. Then I’m goin’ t’ run the Sink or Swim back o’ the islands in Seal Run. Which done, I’ll wait for Tommy Mib t’ make up his mind, one way or t’ other. If he casts loose, I’ll wait, decent as you like, ’til he’s well under weigh, when I’ll ballast un well an’ heave un over. If he’s goin’ t’ bide a spell longer in this world, I’ll wait ’til he’s steady on his pins. But, whatever, go or stay, I’ll fit the schooner with a foretopmast, bark her canvas, paint her black, call her the Prodigal Son, an’ lay a course for St. Johns. They’s not a man on the docks will take the Prodigal Son, black hull, with topmast fore an’ aft an’ barked sails, inbound from the West Coast with a cargo o’ fish—not a man, sir, will take the Prodigal Son for the white, single-topmast schooner Sink or Swim, up from the Labrador, reported with a case o’ smallpox for’ard. For, look you, b‘y,’ says he, ‘nobody knows me t’ St. Johns.’