On a breezy Saturday evening we were busy at these rites.  The Hilda was doing well before a steady nor’-west wind, but the weather—­though nothing misty—­was dark as a pall.  Thick clouds overcast the sky, and there seemed no dividing line between the darkling sea and the windy banks that shrouded the horizon.  A dirty night was in prospect; the weather would thicken later; but that made the modest comforts of the half-deck seem more inviting by comparison; and we came together for our weekly “sing-song”—­all but Gregson, whose turn it was to stand the lookout on the fo’c’sle-head.

The flag was brought out and hung up—­Jones standing by to see that no pipe-lights were brought near—­and we ranted at “Ye Mariners of England” till the mate sent word that further din would mean a “work-up” job for all of us.

Little we thought that we mariners would soon be facing dangers as great as any we so glibly sang about.  Even as we sang, the Hilda was speeding on a fatal course!  Across her track the almost submerged hull of a derelict lay drifting.  Black night veiled the danger from the keenest eyes.

A frenzied order from the poop put a stunning period to our merriment.  “Helm up, f’r God’s sake! . . . Up!—­oh God!—­Up! Up!” A furious impact dashed us to the deck.  Staggering, bruised, and bleeding, we struggled to our feet.  Outside the yells of fear-stricken men mingled with hoarse orders, the crash of spars hurtling from aloft vied with the thunder of canvas, as the doomed barque swung round broadside to the wind and sea.

Even in that dread moment Jones had heed of his precious flag.  As we flew to the door, he tore the flag down, stuffing it in his jumper as he joined us at the boats.

There was no time to hoist out the life-boats—­it was pinnace and gig or nothing.  Already the bows were low in the water.  “She goes.  She goes!” yelled some one.  “Oh, Christ!  She’s going!”

We bore frantically on the tackles that linked the gig, swung her out, and lowered by the run; the mate had the pinnace in the water, men were swarming into her.  As the gig struck water, the barque heeled to the rail awash.  We crowded in, old Burke the last to leave her, and pushed off.  Our once stately Hilda reeled in a swirl of broken water, and the deep sea took her!

Sailor work!  No more than ten minutes between “Ye Mariners” and the foundering of our barque!

We lay awhile with hearts too full for words; then the pinnace drew near, and the mate called the men.  All there but one!  “Gregson!” . . .  No Gregson!  The bosun knew.  He had seen what was Gregson lying still under the wreck of the topmost spars.

The captain and mate conferred long together.  We had no sail in the gig, but the larger boat was fully equipped.  “It’s the only chance, mister,” said Burke at last.  “No food—­no water!  We can’t hold out for long.  Get sail on your boat and stand an hour or two to the east’ard.  Ye may fall in with a ship; she w’was right in th’ track whin she s-struck.  We can but lie to in th’ gig an’ pray that a ship comes by.”