had done enough for themselves. I said nothing to that. It was
true. It was no mutiny. I had nothing to say to them. They lay
about aft all night, as still as so many dead men. I did not lie
down. I kept a look-out. When the first light came I saw your
ship at once. I waited for more light; the breeze began to fail on
my face. Then I shouted out as loud as I was able, 'Look at that
ship!' but only two men got up very slowly and came to me. At
first only we three stood alone, for a long time, watching you
coming down to us, and feeling the breeze drop to a calm almost;
but afterwards others, too, rose, one after another, and by-and-by
I had all my crew behind me. I turned round and said to them that
they could see the ship was coming our way, but in this small
breeze she might come too late after all, unless we turned to and
tried to keep the brig afloat long enough to give you time to save
us all. I spoke like that to them, and then I gave the command to
man the pumps."

He gave the command, and gave the example, too, by going himself to
the handles, but it seems that these men did actually hang back for
a moment, looking at each other dubiously before they followed him.
"He! he! he!" He broke out into a most unexpected, imbecile,
pathetic, nervous little giggle. "Their hearts were broken so!
They had been played with too long," he explained apologetically,
lowering his eyes, and became silent.

Twenty-five years is a long time--a quarter of a century is a dim
and distant past; but to this day I remember the dark-brown feet,
hands, and faces of two of these men whose hearts had been broken
by the sea. They were lying very still on their sides on the
bottom boards between the thwarts, curled up like dogs. My boat's