ease.

"It's a-blowin' putty fresh," said old Dan Ferns. "It sort o' 'minds me o' the night the Dora A. Baker came ashore. That was twenty-five year ago, an' her ribs is stickin' out down there now. They get covered up in these here big gales, but the pond runs out an' scoops the channel right through 'em sometimes. I remember the wrack o' the Dora A. Baker jess as if 'twas yistiddy. She was loaded with corn an'—"

"Say, Dan," said Sammy Wardell, the youngest member of the crew, "I remember hearin' Wall Green say ten year ago that you'd been a-tellin' that yarn fur twelve year."

"Anyhow," said Dan, "her skipper had real pluck, he did, an' when the corn—"

"Oh, stow it, Dan! Stow it!" came a general chorus. Then Henry Slocum, the only member of the crew who had been a deep-water sailor, and who was noted for his reserve, suddenly spoke.

"I don't know what you fellows call pluck exactly," he said, with fine unconsciousness of the fact that he was talking to some of the bravest men alive; "but I'll bet I saw a case once that none of you can trump."

"Let's have it, old shell-back," exclaimed the Captain.

The other men knew that Slocum's experience at sea had been extensive and varied, so they settled themselves in their chairs to hear a yarn.

"This is a true story," began Slocum, "that I'm going to tell you—"

"O' course," interjected Dan Ferns; "all sea-yarns is true."

"And it all happened," continued Slocum, ignoring the interruption, "a good thirty years ago. It ain't so very much of a story, either, but it's a case of real pluck, and so it's worth telling about. I suppose some of you fellows may know that New Bedford, Massachusetts, used to be a whaling-port. Well, thirty years ago the business wasn't as near dead as it is now, and once in a while a man that had a notion for throwing an iron might get a chance to ship for high latitudes. I don't remember exactly how it was that I came to be knocking about up there without anything to do—"

"Waal, Hen, we won't ask no questions," said Dan Ferns.

"But, anyhow," continued Henry, who never paid any attention to Dan, "there I was. I had about made up my mind to work my way to New York on a coaster when I happened to see a bill which said that men were wanted for the celebrated whaler Duke of Wellington. Somehow or other the name caught my fancy, and I read the bill through. It told all about the fine grub and clothes that they were to furnish, but I'll allow that I wasn't fooled by that rubbish. I knew pretty well what to expect in the forecastle of any ship outside of Uncle Sam's navy—salt-horse, weevily biscuit, and tea made out of sawdust. But I got a notion that I'd like to go to the arctic and see some whale-chasing. So I went down and took a look at this Duke of Wellington. She was a wall-sided old hooker, with a stern that looked like an ace of hearts painted black, and a main-yard half as long as her keel. But her bow was clever, and made her look as if the great spread of canvas promised by her yards would carry her up to whaleland in good time. While I was hanging around the wharf looking at her, and expressing by my face the sort of an opinion I had of the way her crew went about their work, a mean-looking fellow came up to me and asked me if I didn't want to ship. He turned out to be the shipping-agent, and he said he knew I was a sailor, and they needed one or two more old hands to set that green crew going. So I up and shipped, and in less than six months I wished I hadn't, because I didn't expect ever to see green grass again.

"It was a bright and glorious morning about the end of May when we passed Clark's Point bound out. The wind was brisk westerly, and the old man clapped the cloth on her. I found she had the heels I suspected, for we were less than an hour in doing the nine knots to Quick's Hole. Then we squared away up the Vineyard Sound, and when night fell we had doubled Menomoy Point and were at sea. I'm not going to tell you about life aboard that whaler, except to say that most of the hands were green, and that made it pretty steep work for the others. In a month the green hands could go aloft and reef and furl, and they knew where to find the halyards, sheets, and tacks. When it came to a job of splicing or sewing, why, the sailormen had to do it. We had fairly good weather up to the entrance to Davis Strait, where we fell in with a gale. After that our old man got crazy to push to the north, and so away we went. At Upernavik we took aboard four Esquimau guides. One of them was a boy called Toko; and this miserable sawed-off little savage is the fellow that afterward showed us all how to be plucky. He could talk a good deal of English, but he seemed to be a very quiet boy, and seldom said anything till he was spoken to. He actually seemed to be stupid; but we found out in good time that all he needed was to be waked up.

"I must get on with this yarn or it'll be as long as Dan Ferns's story of the Dora A. Baker. We worked our way well up into Baffin Bay—or maybe it was Smith Sound. I've always had a notion that we were a good deal further north than the old man was willing to admit. Anyhow, it came about that all of a sudden we discovered that it was getting pretty close to the edge of the arctic winter, and that we were in danger of being shut in by the ice. So now the old man began to push her for the south with all the cloth she'd carry. But the second day it came on to blow right dead ahead. Before night it was a howling gale, and to add to the terror of our situation we could hear the terrific grinding and crashing of the ice away off in the darkness all around us. The Esquimaux huddled together in sheltered spots, but refused to leave the deck. The night passed at last, and when morning dawned it showed us a raging, crazy sea, with ice all around the horizon.

"Well, boys, gradually that ice came nearer and nearer. It was something dreadful to watch it. We knew that we were driving to leeward pretty fast, and that accounted for the approach of the ice on that side; but think how fast that ice up to windward must have been moving to gain on us the way it did. We were helpless, and when at last we drove against the ice, we could do very little indeed. We struck with a great crash, and our fore-royal and mizzen-topgallant-masts went by the board. We made up our minds that we were bound for Davy Jones's locker, when along came another big sea and forced the ship bodily right up on the ice. The ice to windward gradually closed in, and the next day there we were, shut in hard and tight in a field of broken and jagged ice, and with bergs all around us.

"Well, there was nothing for it but to prepare to stay where we were until spring. Then began the terrible business of living through the winter. And it was then that Toko woke up. As our spirits began to go down, his began to rise. The other Esquimaux were contented to sit and wait, but he had pluck. 'Give Toko gun,' he said, 'he get fresh meat.' We gave him a gun, and away he went over the ice and through the blinding snow with the unerring instinct of a savage. The very first day he came back as far as the summit of a hummock half a mile away, and waved his arms. Some of us went to him, and he led us to a polar bear which he had killed single-handed. We dragged the carcass home, and feasted on the juicy steaks. The next day he found a crevice in the ice and killed a seal that had come up. But as the long days moved by on leaden feet we became listless and discouraged. Bill Hedding fell sick and, after lingering three weeks, passed away. We were a dispirited lot after that. But not Toko. He said: 'Not give up. Spring come again. Ice open. Get away in boats. Toko show the way.' But we shook our heads, and did not believe him. He danced strange dances and sang strange songs for us, while the other Esquimaux looked on with grave disapproval. He staid up night after night keeping watch to see that polar bears