“But no fear; she won’t give in. I never could make her give in. She’ll keep going, this one, till the planks are torn from her frame. That’s the spirit of her. But here’s this devil’s breeze heading us off again.”

It was on that next tack she showed herself the wonderful vessel altogether. And Clancy standing right there to see her.

“Did you ever see her like?” he asked, and so fired with admiration of her that—she was carrying her four lowers then—he thought to try her with the staysail. And did. And she stood up under that; not without some further creaking and groaning of her joints, it is true, but still right side up. “M-m!” murmured Clancy, in sheer admiration, and after that gave her the balloon. Blue times it was then, spume and foam and a clawing sea—a great occasion altogether. Grand, yes—life well worth living; and then—it was the forward watch who, thinking he heard an unusual gurgling overboard, stuck his head over her windward bow. And immediately hopped back with warning arms: “Skipper! oh, skipper, she’s all opened up for-ard!”

“Then slap it to her on the other tack,” said Clancy, and never even smiled, for the madness of making a passage was on him.

And while on that other tack came a glorious south-easterly, and riotous joy prevailed aboard the Duncan. A south-easterly gale for homebound vessels, especially in winter! It is a softening, albeit at times a howling influence. Particularly does it add to the joy of man when it follows a hard westerly, serving then to melt the ice. And straight down the Cape shore went the Duncan before it, while Tommie Clancy, standing on her quarter, smiled the smile of a boy with a slice of bread and molasses. To Sam Leary’s query, “Will you beat him out?” he asked, “Beat who out?”

“Why, Glover.”

“Oh, him! Twelve hours’ start? I don’t know. And what’s more, Sammie, I don’t know’s I care. We’re sailing now, that’s sure,” and the frequent seas threatening to overhaul and smother her, he took the wheel himself; and for fourteen hours stood to it, lifting a hand from the spokes only to gulp down the cups of hot coffee which were brought when chance offered. And sang little songs to himself the while—songs of home, and hearth, and wife, and children—songs the Celtic people sing as the mother rocks the babies, the fathers as they meditate on life, death, and what comes after.

In the milder spells of that run the water on her quarter piled to Clancy’s thighs, but later it came to his waist; and there was one inspiring stretch of four hours when the solid water came boiling to his breast. And a man of sweeping height was Clancy. She must have been a sight to please the gods; certainly she was a joy to all she met along the way. They breasted a fleet of outbound trawlers hove to inside La Have, under double-reefed foresails all. To the rail of one, the Buccaneer, stood Crump Taylor.

“What is it?” hailed Crump.

“I don’t know,” yelled back Tommie, “but I’ll know before a great while an’ this breeze holds out.”

“Well, what’s your hurry?” asked the master of the next one, which herself rocked to the sea’s surge till her fore-keel could be seen to the waist.

“Oh, no great hurry—just going to the west’ard,” retorted Clancy.

“Excuse me!” said that one.

“Drive her!” yelled the next. On the Duncan they couldn’t hear the words, so rapidly was she sweeping by; but they knew what he meant by the swishing sweep of his oil-clothed arm.

Not until they rounded Cape Sable and were getting the wind fair abeam did Clancy give over the wheel. After three days and nights on his feet he was beginning to feel the need of rest. It was three o’clock in the morning then.