Well, what of it?  In any case he had acted as his conscience had him act.  He knew that there were those who would say that his conscience was over-sensitive.  Perhaps it was, but it was his conscience, not theirs.  He was class leader in the chapel.  He never forgot that.  And he was the leading citizen of the settlement.  At whatever cost, he must needs prove a good example to his neighbors in his deeds.  Worry would not help the case in the least.  Too much of it would incapacitate him.  He had lived forty-four years without a cod trap, and he had not starved, and he could finish his days without one.

“The Lard’ll take care of us,” Skipper Tom often said when they were in a tight pinch, but he always added, “if we does our best to make the best of things and look after ourselves and the things the Lard gives us to do with.  He calls on us to do that.”

Though Skipper Tom could scarce see how his trap might have escaped destruction he had no intention of resting upon that supposition and perhaps he still entertained a lingering hope that it had escaped.  There is no doubt he prayed for its preservation, and he had strong faith in prayer.  At any rate, at half past eleven o’clock that night he was up and dressed, and routed his two sons out of their beds.  At the stroke of midnight, waiting a tick longer perhaps, to be quite sure that Sunday had gone and Monday morning had arrived, he and his sons pushed out in their big boat.

Skipper Tom would not be doing his best if he did not make certain of what had actually happened to the cod trap.  Every one in Red Bay said it had been destroyed, and no doubt of that.  But no one knew for a certainty, and there might have been an intervention of Divine Providence.

“The Lard helped us to get that trap,” said Skipper Tom, “and ’tis hard to believe he’ll take un away from us so soon, for I tried not to be vain about un, only just a bit proud of un and glad I has un.  If He’s took un from me I’ll know ’twere to try my faith, and I’ll never complain.”

Down they rowed toward the iceberg, whose polished surface gleamed white in the starlight.

“She’s right over where the trap were set!  The trap’s gone,” said one of the sons.

“I’m doubtin’,” Skipper Tom was measuring the distance critically with his eye.

“The trap’s tore to pieces,” insisted the son with discouragement in his voice.

“The berg’s to the lee’ard of she,” declared Skipper Tom finally.

“Tis too close t’ shore.”

“’Tis to the lee’ard!”

“Is you sure, now, Pop?”

“The trap’s safe and sound!  The berg is t’ the lee’ard!”

Tom was right.  A shift of tide had come at the right moment to save the trap.

“The Lard is good to us,” breathed Skipper Tom.  “He’ve saved our trap!  He always takes care of them that does what they feels is right.  We’ll thank the Lard, lads.”