And then I dug my finger nails into the deck and commenced:  “Now I lay me.”  Talk about going!  ’Twas “F-s-s-s-t!” and we was a mile from home.  “Bu-z-z-z!” and we was just getting ready to climb a bank; but ’fore she nosed the shore Phil would put the helm over and we’d whirl round like a windmill, with me and Jonadab biting the planking, and hanging on for dear life, and my heart, that had been up in my mouth knocking the soles of my boots off.  And Cap’n Catesby-Stuart would grin, and drawl:  “’Course, this ain’t like a Orham cat-boat, but she does fairly well—­er—­fairly.  Now, for instance, how does this strike you?”

It struck us—­I don’t think any got away.  I expected every minute to land in the hereafter, and it got so that the prospect looked kind of inviting, if only to get somewheres where ’twas warm.  That February wind went in at the top of my stiff hat and whizzed out through the legs of my thin Sunday pants till I felt for all the world like the ventilating pipe on an ice-chest.  I could see why Phil was wearing the bed-clothes; what I was suffering for just then was a feather mattress on each side of me.

Well, me and Jonadab was “it” for quite a spell.  Phil had all the fun, and I guess he enjoyed it.  If he’d stopped right then, when the fishing was good, I cal’late he’d have fetched port with a full hold; but no, he had to rub it in, so to speak, and that’s where he slopped over.  You know how ’tis when you’re eating mince-pie—­it’s the “one more slice” that fetches the nightmare.  Phil stopped to get that slice.

He kept whizzing up and down that river till Jonadab and me kind of got over our variousness.  We could manage to get along without spreading out like porous plasters, and could set up for a minute or so on a stretch.  And twa’n’t necessary for us to hold a special religious service every time the flat-iron come about.  Altogether, we was in that condition where the doctor might have held out some hopes.

And, in spite of the cold, we was noticing how Phil was sailing that three-cornered sneak-box—­noticing and criticising; at least, I was, and Cap’n Jonadab, being, as I’ve said, the best skipper of small craft from Provincetown to Cohasset Narrows, must have had some ideas on the subject.  Your old chum, Catesby-Stuart, thought he was mast-high so fur’s sailing was concerned, anybody could see that, but he had something to larn.  He wasn’t beginning to get out all there was in that ice-boat.  And just then along comes another feller in the same kind of hooker and gives us a hail.  There was two other chaps on the boat with him.

“Hello, Phil!” he yells, rounding his flat-iron into the wind abreast of ours and bobbing his night-cap.  “I hoped you might be out.  Are you game for a race?”

“Archie,” answers our skipper, solemn as a setting hen, “permit me to introduce to you Cap’n Jonadab Wixon and Admiral Barzilla Wingate, of Orham, on the Cape.”