No one answered, or complied with the request.  Schriften only went up to the captain, and told him that if they offered to send letters they must not be received or the vessel would be doomed, and all would perish.

A man now made his appearance from over the gunnel, at the gangway.  “You might as well have let me had a side rope, my hearties,” said he, as he stepped on deck; “where is the captain?”

“Here,” replied the captain, trembling from head to foot.  The man who accosted him appeared a weather-beaten seaman, dressed in a fur cap and canvas petticoats; he held some letters in his hand.

“What do you want?” at last screamed the captain.

“Yes—­what do you want?” continued Schriften.  “He! he!”

“What, you here, pilot?” observed the man; “well—­I thought you had gone to Davy’s locker, long enough ago.”

“He! he!” replied Schriften, turning away.

“Why the fact is, captain, we have had very foul weather, and we wish to send letters home; I do believe that we shall never get round this Cape.”

“I can’t take them,” cried the captain.

“Can’t take them! well, it’s very odd—­but every ship refuses to take our letters; it’s very unkind—­seamen should have a feeling for brother seamen, especially in distress.  God knows, we wish to see our wives and families again; and it would be a matter of comfort to them, if they only could hear from us.”

“I cannot take your letters—­the saints preserve us;” replied the captain.

“We have been a long while out,” said the seaman, shaking his head.

“How long?” inquired the captain, not knowing what to say.

“We can’t tell; our almanack was blown overboard, and we have lost our reckoning.  We never have our latitude exact now, for we cannot tell the sun’s declination for the right day.”

“Let me see your letters,” said Philip, advancing, and taking them out of the seaman’s hands.

“They must not be touched,” screamed Schriften.

“Out, monster!” replied Philip, “who dares interfere with me?”

“Doomed—­doomed—­doomed!” shrieked Schriften, running up and down the deck, and then breaking into a wild fit of laughter.

“Touch not the letters,” said the captain, trembling as if in an ague fit.

Philip made no reply, but held his hand out for the letters.

“Here is one from our second mate, to his wife at Amsterdam, who lives on Waser Quay.”

“Waser Quay has long been gone, my good friend; there is now a large dock for ships where it once was,” replied Philip.

“Impossible!” replied the man; “here is another from the boatswain to his father, who lives in the old market-place.”

“The old market-place has long been pulled down, and there now stands a church upon the spot.”

“Impossible!” replied the seaman; “here is another from myself to my sweetheart, Vrow Ketser—­with money to buy her a new brooch.”