the barren, above the cliff and the harbor, wiping the sweat from their
faces. Snow lay in patches over the bleak and sodden barren, a raw wind
beat in from the east, and a gray and white sea snarled below.

"Boys," said the young skipper, "I's able to see ahead to the day whin
there'll be no want in Chance Along, but the want we pretends to fool
the world wid. Aye, ye may take Dennis Nolan's word for it! We'll eat
an' drink full, lads, an' sleep warm as any marchant i' St. John's."

"What damn foolery has ye all bin at now?" inquired a sneering voice.

All turned and beheld Foxey Jack Quinn standing near at hand, a leer on
his wide mouth and in his pale eyes, and his nunney-bag on his
shoulder. His skinnywoppers (high-legged moccasins of sealskin,
hair-side inward) were glistening with moisture of melted snow, and his
face was red from the rasp of raw wind. He looked as if he had slept in
his clothes--which was, undoubtedly, the case. He glared straight at the
skipper with a dancing flame of devilment in his eyes.

"What ye bin all a-doin' now for to make extry work for yerselves?" he
asked.

There followed a brief silence, and then Black Dennis Nolan spoke
quietly.

"Why bain't ye over to Squid Beach, standin' yer trick at look-out?" he
inquired.

Foxey Jack's answer was a harsh, jeering laugh, and words to the effect
that life was too short to spend five days of it lonely and starving