When Captain Icky mentioned the word cackle he thought he could detect a dejected look upon the countenance of his feathered friend, and in a sympathetic voice to ease the rooster's feelings, said:
"Wall, rooster, I must say that yo'r women folks was made with the only kind of cackle that has done men folks any good, but gosh darned if it hain't a right-smart bit since I's et an aig!"
Then, having thus relieved himself, Ichabod tossed his heavily sinkered lines into the swift tide. The fish were hungry, and he was kept busy hauling them in.
The swell began to increase. The small craft began to rock uncomfortably. The sun was hidden by a red cloud that banked in the eastern sky. Captain Ichabod knew the signs. He pulled in his line and hooks, made sail, and beat across to the point where nestled the life-saving station. There he would read the barometer, have a chat and a meal with the men, and afterward make a quick run home before the wind.
At the life-saving station, he found the barometer indicated storm, as he had feared.
After a hearty dinner, and a pipe with yarns, Captain Ichabod set sail for the Island, and made it safely, in spite of the rising storm.
The Captain realized that a gale was brewing. He gathered up his nets from their racks. He made them snug in the shack, and stowed away everything movable. He was weather-wise. He would not be caught unawares. A high tide had more than once taught him the lesson of that beach. He had the red skiff hauled well up out of harm's way. There was, too, an extra anchor tied to the painter. Captain Ichabod and the rooster entered their cottage, for refuge from the wind that was now blowing dangerously.
The storm reached such proportions that from his window to seaward it was no longer possible to make out through the rain and spray the broad crêpe-like bands of black and white painted upon the great, towering lighthouse, at the extreme point of Cape Lookout, a few miles to the eastward. The shack was fairly shaking in the West India hurricane—for such it proved to be.... And great was the devastation wrought that night by both wind and wave.
About midnight, Captain Ichabod, feeling that it was not quite safe to retire, stood in the open doorway. He little minded the pelting of the rain as it drove against his weathered cheek. He had donned his oilskins, hat and slicker, and was peering intently seaward. He had been to his skiff and had dragged it a couple of rods further up on the sand as a measure of safety. A yellow flash showed dimly on the black storm clouds that banked the horizon to the north of the Cape—wherein nestled a tiny harbor of refuge. Those who knew took advantage of this retreat in times of tempest.... Woe unto the hapless seafarer, unknowing the way.
It did not take a second flash for the practised eye of the lone man in oilskins to recognize that this was the thing he had expected—even while praying God that it might not be. It was the rocket signal of a boat in distress. Within sound of the breakers, that could not be seen in the pitch black, was somewhere a mass of timber and iron, burdened with cargo and human freight. And that mass, which was a ship, dragged its anchor, as if that anchor were a toy—foot by foot to sure destruction on a beach that has known a hundred wrecks.