“I will!” I swore, in instant response.
“Whatever comes t’ your knowledge?”
“Whatever comes!”
He held his glass aloft––laughed in delighted defiance––tossed off the liquor. “Ecod!” cries he, most heartily; “’tis you an’ me, ol’ shipmate, ag’in the world! Twelve year ago,” says he, “since you an’ me got under way on this here little cruise in the Shining Light. ’Twas you an’ me then. ’Tis you an’ me now. ’Twill be you an’ me t’ the end o’ the v’y’ge. Here’s t’ fair winds or foul! Here’s t’ the ship an’ the crew! Here’s t’ you an’ here’s t’ me! Here’s t’ harbor for our souls!”
’Twas inspiring. I had never known the like to come from my uncle. ’Twas a thrilling toast. I wished I had a glass.
“For it may be, lad,” says my uncle, “that we’ll have t’ put t’ sea!”
But for many a month thereafter the Shining Light 187 lay at anchor where then she swung. No brass buttons came ashore from the mail-boat: no gray stranger intruded upon our peace. Life flowed quietly in new courses: in new courses, to be sure, with Judith and John Cather come into our house, but still serenely, as of old. The Shining Light rose and fell, day by day, with the tides of that summer, kept ready for our flight. In the end, she put to sea; but ’twas not in the way my uncle had foreseen. ’Twas not in flight; ’twas in pursuit. ’Twas a thing infinitely more anxious and momentous. ’Twas a thing that meant much more than life or death. In these distant days––from my chair, here, in our old house––by the window of my room––I look out upon the water of Old Wives’ Cove, whence the Shining Light has for many years been missing; and I remember the time she slipped her anchor and ran to sea with the night coming down and a gale of wind blowing lustily up from the gray northeast.