"Afore ye pours," he began, "I 'low I'd best--God's sake! What's
that?"
'Twas a great sea breaking over us.
"Moses!" my uncle hailed.
The schooner was on her course: the fool had clung to the wheel.
"Ice in that sea, Dannie," says my uncle. "An' ye got a bottle o' rum!
Well, well! Wonderful sight o' ice t' the nor'ard. Ye'll find, I bet
ye, that the fishin' fleet is cotched fast somewheres long about the
straits. An' a bottle o' rum for a cold night! Well, well! I bet ye,
Dannie," says he, "that the _Likely Lass_ is gripped by this time. An'
ye got a bottle o' rum!" cries he, in a beaming fidget. "Rum's a
wonderful thing on a cold night, lad. Nothin' like it. I've tried it.
Was a time," he confided, "when I was sort o' give t' usin' of it."