"Now I'll pay me calls on 'em, like good Father McQueen himself,"
murmured the skipper.

He moved across the frosty rock to the nearest door. It was opened to
him by a wide-eyed woman with a ragged shawl thrown over her head.

"Mornin' to ye, Kate. How bes yer man Tim this mornin'?" inquired the
skipper.

He stepped inside without waiting for an answer or an invitation. He
found Tim in the bed beside the stove, snoring heavily. He grabbed his
shoulder and shook it roughly until the fellow closed his mouth and
opened his eyes.

"Tim Leary, ye squid, shut off yer fog-horn an' hark to me!" he
exclaimed. "By sun-up ye goes back to the woods and commences cuttin'
out poles for Father McQueen's church. Ye'll take yer brother Corny an'
Peter Walen along wid ye an' ye'll chop poles all day. Mark that, Tim. I
let ye take a fling yesterday, jist to see what kind o' dogs ye be; but
if ever I catches ye takin' another widout the word from me I'll be
killin' ye!"

The man groaned.

"Holy saints, skipper, ye'd not be sendin' me to choppin' poles wid a
head on me like a lobster-pot?" he whispered. "Sure, skipper, me poor
head feels that desperate bad, what wid the liquor an' the clout ye give
me, I couldn't heave it up from the pillow if Saint Peter himself give
the word."