"Feather's Folly!" roared the cook.
"Which?" said the skipper, suspiciously.
The cook was on his feet—dancing in glad excitement. "Feather's Folly!" he shouted "Feather's Folly!"
"Catch un!" said the skipper, quietly. "He've gone mad."
They set upon the poor cook. Before he could escape they had him fast. He was tripped, thrown, sat upon.
"Don't let him up," the skipper warned. "He'll do hisself hurt. Poor man!" he sighed. "He've lost his senses."
"Mad!" screamed the cook. "You're mad. Feather's Folly! We're saved!"
"Hold un tight," said the skipper.
But the cook was not to be held. He wriggled free and bolted. Billy Topsail and all took after him, the skipper in the lead; and by the dim, changing light of that night he led them a mad chase over rock and through drifted snow. They pursued, they headed him off, they laid hold of his flying coat-tail; but he eluded them, dodged, sped, doubled. If he were mad, there was method in his madness. He was searching every square yard of that acre of uneven rock. At last, panting and perspiring, he came to a full stop and turned triumphantly upon his pursuers. He had found what he sought.
"Mad!" he laughed. "Who's mad, now? Eh? Who's crazy?"