"'I make a tramp,' says he, rubbin' his hands, 'with her propeller ripped off.'

"I reached a hand for the rope.

"'Hol' on!' says he; 'you keep your hook off that there whistle.'

"'I was thinkin',' says I, 't' speed a message o' comfort.'

"'Let her beller a bit, ye dunderhead!' says he.

"'What for?' says I.

"'T' make sure in her own mind,' says he, 'that she needs a kindly hand t' help her.'

"'Twould be easy enough for the steam-swiler _Royal Bloodhound_ t'

jerk that yelpin' tramp, had she lost her propeller--as well she might, poor helpless lady o' fashion! in that slob-ice--'twould be easy enough t' rip her through a league o' the floe t' open water, with a charge or two o' good black powder t' help.

"'Tumm,' says Cap'n Sammy, by an' by, 'how's the gla.s.s?'

"'She've the look an' conduct o' the devil, sir.'

"'Good!' says he. 'I hopes she kicks the bottom out. You might go so far as t' give that bellerin' ironclad a toot.'

"I tooted.

"'You come along o' me, Tumm,' says he, 'an' learn how t' squeeze a lemon.'

"Cap'n Sammy kep' explodin' in little chuckles, like a bunch o'

Queen's-birthday firecrackers, as we trudged the ice toward the howlin' ship in the mist. 'Twas a hundred fathoms o' rough goin', I promise you, that northern slob, in which the tramp an' the _Royal Bloodhound_ lay neighbors; an' 'twas mixed with hummocks an' bergs, an' 'twas all raftered an' jammed by the westerly gales o' that season. After dawn then; an' 'twas a slow, greasy dawn, I mind. But the yellow light growed fast in the fog; an' the mist thinned in a whiff o' wind from the nor'west. 'Twould lift, by an' by: a clean, gray day. 'Every man for hisself,' says Cap'n Sammy, as we drawed near, 'an' the devil take the hindmost. She's a likely-lookin' craft.

Pinched fast, too. An' the weather-gla.s.s kickin' at its foundations!

Eh, Tumm? Every man for hisself.' It turned out Cap'n Sammy was right.

She was a tramp, the _Claymore_, two thousand tons, outbound from Liverpool t' Canadian ports, loaded deep, an' now tight in the grip o'

the ice. In a big blow o' wind her iron sides would yield like paper t' the crush o' the pack. An' if the signs read true that blow was brewin' in the nor'west. 'Twas breezin' up, down there, with the sky in a saucy temper. From the deck o' the _Claymore_ I looked t' the west, where the little puffs o' wind was jumpin' from, an' t' the sour sky, an' roundabout upon the ice; an' I was glad I wasn't shipped aboard that thin-skinned British tramp, but was mate of a swilin'-steamer, Newf'un'land built, with sixteen-inch oak sides, an'

thrice braced with oak in the bows. She was spick an' span, that big black tramp, fore an' aft, aloft an' below; but in a drive o'

ice--with the wind whippin' it up, an' the night dark, an' the pack a livin', roarin' whirlpool o' pans an' bergs--white decks an' polished bra.s.s don't count for much. 'Tis a stout oak bottom, then, that makes for peace o' mind.

"Cap'n Wrath, at your service, sir: a close-whiskered, bristly, pot-bellied little Britisher in bra.s.s b.u.t.tons an' blue. 'Glad t' know you, Cap'n Small,' says he. 'You've come in the nick o' time, sir. How near can you steam with that ol' batterin'-ram o' yours?'

"'That ol' _what_?' says Cap'n Sammy.

"'Here, some o' you!' Cap'n Wrath yelled t' the crew; 'get a line----'

"'Hol' on!' says Cap'n Sammy; 'no hurry.'

"Cap'n Wrath jumped.

"'Got yourself in a nice mess, isn't you?' says Cap'n Sammy. 'An' in these busy times, too, for us poor swilers. Lost your propeller, isn't you?'

"'No, sir.'

"'Ah-ha!' says Cap'n Sammy. 'Got a weak blade, eh? Got a crack somewheres in the works, I'll be bound! An' you da.s.sen't use your propeller in this here slob-ice, eh? Scared o' your for'ard plates, too, isn't you? An' you wants a tow, doesn't you? You wants me t' take chances with my blades, eh, an' bruise my poor ol' bows, buckin' this here ice, t' perk your big yelpin' ship t' open water afore the gale nips you?'

"Cap'n Wrath c.o.c.ked his red head.

"'Well,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'know what _I_ wants? I wants a dram o'

rum.'

"Cap'n Wrath laughed. 'Haw, haw, haw!' says he. An' he jerked a thumb for the ship's boy. Seemed t' think Cap'n Sammy was a ol' wag.

"'We better have that rum in your pretty little cabin,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'an' have it quick, for the weather don't favor delay. I'll want more, an' you'll need more, afore we strikes our bargain. Anyhow, I'm a wonderful hand with a bottle,' says he, 'when it ain't my bottle.'

"'Haw, haw! Very good, indeed, sir!' says Cap'n Wrath. 'I missed your wink, sir.'

"They went off then, arm in arm, like ol' cronies. 'A dram o' rum, in a little mess like this, sir,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'has heartened many a man afore you.'

"When they come down from the upper deck," Tumm resumed, "Cap'n Sammy was a bit weak in the knees. Tipsy, sir. Ay--Small Sam Small with three sheets in the wind. Free rum an' a fair prospect o' gluttin' his greed had overcome un for once in a way. But grim, sir--an' with little patches o' red aflare in his dry white cheeks. An' as for Cap'n Wrath, that poor bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned Britisher was sputterin' rage like a Gatlin' gun.

"'A small difference of opinion, Tumm,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'over North Atlantic towage rates. Nothin' more.'

"'Get off my ship, sir!' says Cap'n Wrath.

"'Cap'n Wrath,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'you better take a thoughtful squint at your weather-gla.s.s.'

"Cap'n Wrath snarled.

"'You'll crumple up, an' you'll sink like sc.r.a.p-iron,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'when that black wind comes down. Take the word for it,' says he, 'of a old skipper that knows the ice from boyhood.'

"Cap'n Wrath turned his back. Never a word from the ol' c.o.c.k, ecod!--but a speakin' sight of his blue back.

"'If you works a cracked propeller in this here heavy slob,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'you'll lose it. An' now,' says he, 'havin' warned you fair, my conscience is at ease.'

"'Off my ship, sir!' says Cap'n Wrath.

"''Twill cost you jus' a dollar a minute, Cap'n Wrath,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'for delay.'

"Cap'n Wrath swung round, with that, an' fair spat rage an' misery in Cap'n Sammy's face.

"'I'll work the _Bloodhound_ near,' says Cap'n Sammy, 'an' stand by t' take a line. This gale will break afore noon. But give her some leeway, t' make sure. Ay; the ice will feel the wind afore dark. The ice will talk: it won't need no word o' mine. You'll want that line aboard my ship, Cap'n Wrath, when the ice begins t' press. An' I'll stand by, like a Christian skipper, at a dollar a minute for delay'--he hauled out his timepiece--'t' save your ribs from crackin'

when they hurts you. Yelp for help when you wants to. Good-day, sir.'

He went overside. 'Item, Cap'n Wrath,' says Skipper Sammy, squintin'

up: 'to one dollar a minute for awaitin' skipper's convenience.'

"We got under way over the ice, then, for the _Royal Bloodhound_.

'Skipper Sammy,' says I, by an' by, 'was you reasonable with un?'

"'When I gets what I'm bound t' have, Tumm,' says he, 'they won't be much juice left in that lemon.'