But, man, she can't make it!"

A great sea broke over the bows and came curling down the decks. The schooner quivered, lurched, rose to the crest of the next wave.

"My God! man," screamed Tutt, "she'll stand noa moare!"

Skipper Dan looked again to the harbor tickle-a scared glance, cast swiftly from the open sea to the place where shelter was.

"I'll hold on with the sail I got," he muttered, his teeth hard set, "for I'm wantin' t'make harbor."

Came a furious gust; it heeled the schooner till her rail was buried in frothy water, which flashed hissing past jammed her down, down, down; held her there, near on her beam-ends. She righted in a lull.

"For God's sake, reef her, Dan!" cried Tutt.

Skipper Dan spun the wheel to meet a combing sea head on. The schooner smothered her bows.

"I'll hold on with the sail I got," he gasped, "for I'm-in haste-t' makeharbor."

"You'll loss her-you'll loss her!"

They were about to take the other tack. Tutt ran forward to lend a hand with the jib-sheets. The seas broke over her fore and aft while she hung in stays-smothered her, near swamped her; but she came to at last, and ran off, with the water pouring over her lee rail.

"Oh, God!" Skipper Dan groaned. "I'm wantin' sore t' make harbor!" The wind swept his cry off to sea, where there was no ear to hear. He looked up to the driving sky; and he said: "I isn't able t' stand much moare o' this, Lard. The wind an' the waves rage, an' I is troubled; the sea sets a trap with the night, an' I is afraid. The wind rises, gust upon gust, until my heart stands still; the waves o' the sea increase, wave after wave, an' noa man knoweth their purpose."

It was touch and go with the Early Bird. The gale was swirling yet more wildly in the dusk of round about. The coast was a thin shadow in the mist-a black streak, low lying, and fringed with frothy white. The night had crept close to the shoal off the harbor mouth, which may not be threaded in the dark. It was touch and go; so Tutt came aft again.

"Lard! Dan," he begged, "woan't you reef her down now?"

Skipper Dan shook his head.

"She'll turn over, man! Woan't you leave us reef the for's'l?"

Dan hesitated.

"Stand by t' cut the for's'l halyards!" he shouted to two of the crew. "But doan't you cut afore I gives the word." Again the schooner went over, and hung trembling on her beam-ends. But the skipper would not sacrifice the sail to the peril of the moment.

"Cut away!" screamed Tutt.
"Noa, noa!" Dan roared.

Since Dan was a lad-since that night, long ago, when, snuggled close to his father in the dark, he looked forward to the life he must lead-he had measured the strength and cunning of things he feared.

"Hell!" the clerk cried, in his throat, staring the while at the mounting water. 'We're lost!"

But the schooner righted.

"I'll hold on," Dan muttered, "for I'm wantin' t' make harbor."

To and fro on the zigzag went the Early Bird, laboring into the offshore wind heeling, reeling, smothered in foam: a race against the night, with the sea pulling at her. In the end-when the dark was thick-she slipped through the tickle to the harbor; and they dropped anchor in the lee of the great hills, where the water rippled, and no more than a flutter and moan of the gale without broke the peace of the place.

"Harbor!" Dannie Crew whispered as the chain ran rattling through the hawse-pipe; he lifted his hands to the black sky, and, "Lard God!" he cried, "the anchor's down! 'Tis harbor'tis harbor!"

And, oh ay, Skipper Dannie was gay enough when the fire crackled in the forecastle bogie-when the fire crackled and the kettle sang and the cook rattled his pots and pans! Oh ay, Dannie Crew was merry enough when the coals began to glow and the yellow light of the forecastle lamp chased the shadows up the ladder to the night! Ay, while the fire roared and the lamp was alight and the ship lay in the shelter of the hills, Dan Crew was jolly enough. It was he who clapped old Sam Budgel on the back

gales t' follow; they's the spring gales o' the year after, an' the fall gales o' that season-ay, the fall an' spring gales o' all the years

"Stop!" Dan cried.

"The fall an' spring gales o' all the years-"

For the moment Dan was unmanned. "Doan't say noa moare, Sam!" he pleaded; then, "I've weathered but one moare gale, says you?"

"But one gale o' the gales o' many years."

"I'm in harbor for but the night?" "For but the night. When you is so old as me, lad, you'll know they's noa such thing as harbor."

"I didn't know it afore," Dan whispered, looking away, "but I knows it now. I wisht I didn't."

"They's noa such thing as harbor!" "Ay; they's noa such thing as harbor.

"Ay," was the answer, gravely spoken. "I've saved my body from the waves o' the sea, my soul from the hands o' death." The grin faded from the faces of the crew.

"Hut!" Sam sneered.

The crew leaned forward to listen. The old man's sneer was ominous of some hard word to come.

"Say what you've t' say, Sam," said the skipper," an' have done."

""Tis but one gale," with a shrug.

There was silence in the forecastle. Skipper Dan stared at the old man, then came close to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. There was dead silence then.

"Say that again, Sam," said the skipper, hoarsely. "I-I-doan't know-yet -what you means. 'Tis but one gale, says you?"

"Ay; but one."

""Tis a wonderful thought. But one gale weathered?"

"Ay; but one. You're safe from it; but 'tis not the last you'll have t' weather. You're in harbor now, lad, but you'll have t' put t' sea the morrow. 'Tis not the last gale that 'll blow. They's all the fall gales o' this year, an' all the spring gales o' the next, an' all the fall

Skipper Dan went on deck. For a long time they listened in silence to the fall of his restless feet overhead.

"He've lost his anchor, sure enough," said Tom Tutt.

VI

In the first fall gale of that year the Early Bird was caught off a lee shore near the Rocks o' Wrecked Ships. It is a rock-bound cove-in stormy weather all black and white, under low gray skies, a wide place, open to the seas, high-cliffed; and the sea breaks upon heaps of jagged black rock, or leaps at the cliff, flinging spray into the mist that clings to the spruce-trees above. The wind came from the open-from the far, vast wastes of the northeast, which are forever strange and dark. It swept inshore; there was no escape from the Rocks o' Wrecked Ships. It was a great wind, not a fussy summer gale, black in a moment but soon breaking into sunshine and blue calm (a wind to be humored and outwitted); it was a wind of gathered force, thick with frost, driving heavily, strong beyond the strength of schooners. The sea had lain restless under variable gales for five days. Then came the grim wind, now of fixed and sullen purpose to sweep those seas of ships; it gathered the waves

together and drove them fuming in upon the Rocks o' Wrecked Ships. Offshore, between the breakers and the wider open, the little Early Bird lay tossing, with anchors out to port and starboard. There was nothing to be done; the issue lay with the wind and the anchor chains.

The men in the forecastle counted their sins.

"Growin' warse!" Tom Tutt roared to the skipper.

t' the men o' the north. . . . O God! who forged the chains?"

A whim of the wind swept the rest away. Tom Tutt shook his fist at the breakers and black rocks.

""Tis the Port o' Hell!" he screamed. He went below and told the crew that the skipper was stark mad.

They were forward by the windlass, with an eye on the chains; the skipper had stood there the night through. It was near dawn of the second day. The dark still lay thick in the west. Dead to leeward the black rocks were taking form in the mist and spume. The seas, as they ran past to that place, clutched the ship and tugged at her mightily. Skipper Dan nodded.

The skipper got to windward to reply. He shook his head, shook it again, and put his mouth close to Tutt's ear. "Job Manuel-master builder!" he said.

The clerk's next words were caught up by the wind and flung against the cliffs to leeward. A wave broke over the bows. Tutt was taken unaware and near swept away. He made his handhold good again. "Who forged the chains?" he gasped. Skipper Dan stared into Tutt's eyes, then, of a sudden, straight out to sea; his glance did not return.

"Who forged un?" Tutt cried. "Who did?" Dan muttered, blankly. Tutt could no longer bear the mad confusion of wind and breaking waves, of spume and the flying dawn. He staggered back to the forecastle. On the ladder he paused to watch the sea breaking over the Rocks o' Wrecked Ships. Then he heard the answer to his question. It came with the wind.

"Who forged the chains?" Skipper Dan was crying. "Upon the first link and upon the last, upon the seventh and the seventieth, hang the lives o' seven men. Whose arm swung the hammer? Had the work o' the day a high place in the heart o' that man? Who forged the chains? In the red forges o' the south they were made-in a place far off an' hidden; an' the hands an' the hearts o' the smiths o' that coast are not known

the sudden darkness, breathless in the driving wind; they stumbled forward to the windlass. Skipper Dan was a man— ready, sure, masterful, a new ring to his voice, a new light in his eye. There was a word or two of precise directionno question now, no whine of fear; then the skipper ran aft to the wheel. "Haul away!" came out of the dusk at the stern. The starboard anchor was slipped. Up went the main-jib. The schooner rounded and ran away before the wind, bound for that point in the cliff where the trees grew low, skilfully helped over the rough way to her wreck. The crew were gathered by the foremast, where, in awe, each watched the breakers grow large.

"Hark!" Tom Tutt exclaimed. "Sure, Skipper Dan's singin'!"

They listened to the words the wind swept past; bending their heads, they listened.

""Tis about a heart that faints!" said Tutt, turning in wonder.

"Ay," old Sam added, "an' a word o' some wonderful fine harbor he's bound to." "The skip

"Mad!" the clerk cried. per's stark mad!"

"Great hills,' says he," Sam went on, "give it shelter from the winds forever; nor do men any moare put out t' sea."'"

The voice crying in the dark was obscured by the thunder of the surf-the hiss and crash and thud.