To reef the mainsail we were forced to run off before the gale under the single reefed jib.  By the time we had finished the wind had forced up such a tremendous sea that it was impossible to heave her to.  Away we flew on the wings of the storm through the muck and flying spray.  A wind sheer to starboard, then another to port as the enormous seas struck the schooner astern and nearly broached her to.  As day broke we took in the jib, leaving not a sail unfurled.  Since we had begun scudding she had ceased to take the seas over her bow, but amidships they broke fast and furious.  It was a dry storm in the matter of rain, but the force of the wind filled the air with fine spray, which flew as high as the crosstrees and cut the face like a knife, making it impossible to see over a hundred yards ahead.  The sea was a dark lead color as with long, slow, majestic roll it was heaped up by the wind into liquid mountains of foam.  The wild antics of the schooner were sickening as she forged along.  She would almost stop, as though climbing a mountain, then rapidly rolling to right and left as she gained the summit of a huge sea, she steadied herself and paused for a moment as though affrighted at the yawning precipice before her.  Like an avalanche, she shot forward and down as the sea astern struck her with the force of a thousand battering rams, burying her bow to the catheads in the milky foam at the bottom that came on deck in all directions—­forward, astern, to right and left, through the hawse-pipes and over the rail.

The wind began to drop, and by ten o’clock we were talking of heaving her to.  We passed a ship, two schooners, and a four-masted barkentine under the smallest of canvas, and at eleven o’clock, running up the spanker and jib, we hove her to, and in another hour we were beating back again against the aftersea under full sail to regain the sealing ground away to the westward.

Below, a couple of men were sewing the “bricklayer’s” body in canvas preparatory to the sea burial.  And so with the storm passed away the “bricklayer’s” soul.

THE LOST POACHER

“But they won’t take excuses.  You’re across the line, and that’s enough.  They’ll take you.  In you go, Siberia and the salt-mines.  And as for Uncle Sam, why, what’s he to know about it?  Never a word will get back to the States.  ‘The Mary Thomas,’ the papers will say, ’the Mary Thomas lost with all hands.  Probably in a typhoon in the Japanese seas.’  That’s what the papers will say, and people, too.  In you go, Siberia and the salt-mines.  Dead to the world and kith and kin, though you live fifty years.”

In such manner John Lewis, commonly known as the “sea-lawyer,” settled the matter out of hand.

It was a serious moment in the forecastle of the Mary Thomas.  No sooner had the watch below begun to talk the trouble over, than the watch on deck came down and joined them.  As there was no wind, every hand could be spared with the exception of the man at the wheel, and he remained only for the sake of discipline.  Even “Bub” Russell, the cabin-boy, had crept forward to hear what was going on.