“Nick Counahan he never went aboard fer a night ‘thout a pond o’ rum somewheres in the manifest,” said Tom Platt, playing up to the lead.  “He used to bum araound the c’mission houses to Boston lookin’ fer the Lord to make him captain of a tow-boat on his merits.  Sam Coy, up to Atlantic Avenoo, give him his board free fer a year or more on account of his stories.

“Counahan the Navigator!  Tck!  Tck!  Dead these fifteen year, ain’t he?”

“Seventeen, I guess.  He died the year the Caspar McVeagh was built; but he could niver keep things sep’rate.  Steyning tuk him fer the reason the thief tuk the hot stove—­bekaze there was nothin’ else that season.  The men was all to the Banks, and Counahan he whacked up an iverlastin’ hard crowd fer crew.  Rum!  Ye cud ha’ floated the Manila, insurance an’ all, in fwhat they stowed aboard her.  They lef’ Boston Harbour for the great Grand Bank wid a roarin’ nor’wester behind ’em an’ all hands full to the bung.  An’ the hivens looked after thim, for divil a watch did they set, an’ divil a rope did they lay hand to, till they’d seen the bottom av a fifteen-gallon cask o’ bug-juice.  That was about wan week, so far as Counahan remembered. (If I cud only tell the tale as he told ut!) All that whoile the wind blew like ould glory, an’ the Marilla—­’twas summer, and they’d give her a foretopmast—­struck her gait and kept ut.  Then Counahan tuk the hog-yoke an’ thrembled over it for a whoile, an’ made out, betwix’ that an’ the chart an’ the singin’ in his head, that they was to the south’ard o’ Sable Island, gettin’ along glorious, but speakin’ nothin’.  Then they broached another keg, an’ quit speculatin’ about anythin’ fer another spell.  The Marilla she lay down whin she dropped Boston Light, and she never lufted her lee-rail up to that time—­hustlin’ on one an’ the same slant.  But they saw no weed, nor gulls, nor schooners; an’ prisintly they obsarved they’d bin out a matter o’ fourteen days and they mis-trusted the Bank has suspinded payment.  So they sounded, an’ got sixty fathom.  ‘That’s me,’ sez Counahan.  ’That’s me iv’ry time!  I’ve run her slat on the Bank fer you, an’ when we get thirty fathom we’ll turn in like little men.  Counahan is the b’y,’ sez he.  ’Counahan the Navigator!’

“Nex’ cast they got ninety.  Sez Counahan:  ’Either the lead-line’s tuk to stretchin’ or else the Bank’s sunk.’

“They hauled ut up, bein’ just about in that state when ut seemed right an’ reasonable, and sat down on the deck countin’ the knots, an’ gettin’ her snarled up hijjus.  The Marilla she’d struck her gait, an’ she hild ut, an’ prisintly along came a tramp, an’ Counahan spoke her.

“‘Hev ye seen any fishin’-boats now?’ sez he, quite casual.

“‘There’s lashin’s av them off the Irish coast,’ sez the tramp.

“‘Aah! go shake yerseif,’ sez Counahan.  ’Fwhat have I to do wid the Irish coast?’

“‘Then fwhat are ye doin’ here?’ sez the tramp.