Even in moderate weather, what chance would they have in that surf?  And to-night it would be to her mast-head, with combers curving like a rattlesnake’s neck, and twisting, and hissing, and they would catch him up, and ten ways he’d go then, gurgling, smothering, drowning, and his body, if ever it did come ashore for anybody to find,—­after a December night,—­they’d find it frozen stiff.

The walls of the little engine house were icing up, the spray was freezing on his moustache—­surely a proper night for a man’s enemy to be lost.  In the lee of the little shack he lit a cigar; but it would not stay lit, and he threw it from him.  The curse which he hove after it brought an answering hail from across the dock, “Hullo there”!  Harty drew back, but the hurrying step drew nearer, and suddenly the hurrying form was beside him, and a pair of eyes were peering at him.

“Who’s this?  Why, hullo, Bud!  What you doin’ here?”

“Who’s that?  Oh, hello, Baldy.  Where’d you come from?”

“From the Whist—­where else?  Told the crew to beat it—­all except old Pete.  Holidays don’t mean anything to Pete, so he’s sleeping aboard.  A wild night, Bud.  Maybe we wasn’t glad not to be caught outside!  The old Whist she’d sure have a fine time outside to-night.  She’d last about half a night-watch out there—­say out where old 67 is to-night.  But where you bound, Bud?”

“Nowhere—­anywhere.”

“Well, what d’y’ say if we take a look in on old Perrault?”

“What do you want to go there for?”

“Oh, forget that.  Come on.  Every Christmas Eve since I’ve known him we’ve drunk a Christmas health together.  A good old scout, Perrault, and you and me, Bud, we ought to be ashamed the way we kept away from him lately.  Passed him on the street the other day.  ’Ah-h, dear Baldwin, you have time for the Port Light saloon, but not for your old frien’”, and he shakes his old head.  ’Please, do not fail, Cap-tan, on this Christmas Eve!’ he says to me.  ‘And Mr. Harty also.’  Come on now.  Be good.  ’Twarn’t him didn’t marry you, mind.  Come on, Bud and forget it.”

“All right—­go ahead.”

It was old Perrault himself who spotted Baldwin coming in the door of the store.  His joy was bursting.  “Ah-h, Cap-tan!  Ah-h, you come once more to see your old frien’.  And you also, Mister Harty.  Now then—­and you shall also, Mister Harty.  Yes, yes, I say it—­drink with me to the Christmas.”

Baldwin filled his glass.  Harty made no move.

“Come on, Bud, you too.  What’s the matter with you?  Here, fill her up.  What’s the matter with you, anyway, to-night?”

“I’m on the water-wagon.”

“Since when?”

“Since to-day.”

“Sufferin’ Neptune!  Who ever heard of a water-wagon doin’ business on Christmas Eve?  I think if we looked it up, you’d find a law against it, and if there ain’t, there ought to be.  Come on.  No?  Well, all right, stay on it.  Mo-sher Perrault—­” and, as he had done for many a Christmas Eve before, Baldwin touched his glass to old Perrault’s, and gave the toast.