Ferrier was anything but a fatalist, yet he had a happy and useful way
of taking short views of life. In times of extreme depression he used to
say to himself, "Things seem black just now, but I know when I get over
the trouble I shall look over the black gap of misery and try to imagine
what is on the other side." It is a good plan. Many a suicide would have
been averted if the self-slain beings had chosen to take a short view
instead of harbouring visions of huge banked-up troubles.

No young fellow was ever in a much more awkward position than that of
Ferrier. The _Haughty Belle_ smack, in spite of her highly fashionable
name, was one of the ramshackle tubs which still contrive to escape the
censure of the Board of Trade; and Bill Larmor, the skipper, skilful as
he was, could not do himself justice in a craft that wallowed like a
soaked log. Then poor Withers, the maimed man, was a constant care; all
the labour of two hands at the pumps was of little avail, and, last of
all, the unhappy little boy could hardly count at all as a help.

But the bricklayer's saying, "It's dogged as does it," holds all over
the world, and brave men drive death and despair back to their
fastnesses. Ferrier thought, "I'm all well except for the active
inhabitants of the cabin. They seem to be colonizing my person and
bringing me under cultivation; barring that I'm not so ill off. If I can
ease my patient, that is something to the good." So he claimed the boy's
assistance for the night, and determined to divide his time between
soothing Withers and lending a hand on deck. Skipper Larmor was
composed, as men of his class generally are; you rarely hear them raise
their voices, and they seldom show signs of being flurried. As quietly
as though he had been wishing his passenger good evening, he said--