I had no notion in the beginning of going anywhere near Newfoundland that winter, but the word was passed to me from old John Rose of Folly Cove that if I thought of running down for a load of herrín’, then he’d ought to have a couple o’ thousand barrels, by the looks o’ things, fine and fat in pickle, against Christmas Day, and old John Rose being a great friend of mine, and the market away up, I kissed the wife and baby good-by and put out for Placentia Bay in the Aurora.

Now if anybody’d come to me before I left Gloucester that trip and asked me to turn a smuggling trick, why, I’d ‘a’ said: “Go away, boy, you’re crazy.” But on the way down I put into Saint Pierre. You know Saint Pierre? In the Miquelons, yes, where in the spring the fishing vessels from France put in-big vessels, bark-rigged mostly, and carrying forty or fifty in a crew-they put in to fit out for the Grand Banks fishing. And they come over with wine mostly for ballast. And in the fall they sail back home, but without the wine.

And, of course, somethin’s got to be done with that wine, and though wine’s as cheap in Saint Pierre as ’tis to any port in France, yet ’tisn’t all drunk in Saint Pierre-not quite. The truth is, those people in Saint Pierre aren’t much in the drinking line. One American shacking crew will come in there and put away more in one night than that whole winter population will in a week-that is, they would if they could get the kind they wanted. But that Saint Pierre wine isn’t the kind of booze that our fellows are looking for after hauling trawls for a month o’ winter days on the Banks. No, what they want is something with more bite in it. And what becomes of it? H-m-if you knew that you’d know what a lot of people’d like to know.

Well, I put into Saint Pierre, for I knew old John Rose and his gang of herring netters would cert’nly relish a drink of red rum now and again on a cold winter’s night, and, going ashore, I runs into a sort of fat, black lad about forty-five, half French, half English, that was a great trader there, named Miller. ’Twas off him I bought my keg of rum for old John Rose. I’d heard of this Miller before, and a slick, smooth one he was reported to be, with a warehouse on one of the docks.

He’d been looking at my vessel, he said, had noticed her come to anchor, and a splendid vessel she was-fast and weatherly, no doubt of that. Well, that was all right, for, take it from me, the Aurora was all that anybody could say of her that was good. And when you believe that way, and a man comes along and begins to praise your vessel like that, whether you like his sail plans or not, why you just naturally can’t help warming up to him. We took a walk up the street together.

And a master and a crew that knew how to handle her, too, Miller goes on. Now I blinked a little at that, straight to my face as it was, but after two or three more drinks I says to myself: “Oh, hell, what’s the good o’ suspectin’ everybody that pays a compliment of trying to heave twine over you?” We got pretty friendly, and, talking about one thing and another, he finally asked me if I ever had a notion of selling my vessel. I only smiled at him, and asked him if he had any idea what she cost to build. I told him then. Fourteen thousand dollars to the day of her trial trip, and all the money my wife and I had in the world had gone into her. He had no idea she cost so much; but, on reflection, it must be so-of a certainty yes. A splen-did, a su-pairb vessel, so swift to sail, so perfect to manoeuvre. If he himself possessed such an enchanting vessel-well, he could use her to much profit. There was a way.

He said that so slyly that I had to ask him what that way was. He winked. “I deal in wines-what way can it be?” And, of course, I winked back to show that I was a deep one too. It’s wonderful what things a man c’n get up to wind’ard of you after he’s half filled you up. Well, no more then, but we left our caffay for a walk around the port, me looking for a little souvenir in the jewelry line for the baby. Christmas was comin’, and though I didn’t expect to be home till after New Year’s, still I wanted the wife to know I hadn’t forgotten the baby.

I was tellin’ that to Miller, and a little more about them, of how I hadn’t been but a couple of years married, and how I kissed her and the baby good-by on the steps, and her tellin’ me the last thing not to go pilin’ the vessel up on the rocks anywhere, that the baby’s fortune was in her now, and so on.

Well, sir, that farewell scene, that adieu, was too touching for him-he insisted on picking out the souvenir himself, and he picked out a good one, a pretty brooch to fasten the baby’s little collar, and he paid for it-forty francs-and I just had to take it.

Well, we had another drink and parted, me not expecting to see any more of him; but that night as I was down on the dock hailing the vessel for a dory to go aboard, a man stepped up to me and laid his hand on my arm. “Captain Corning?” he said, and I said yes.

Well, he was a friend of Mr. Miller-he had seen me talking to Mr. Miller, and learned that I was about to depart in the early morning, bound for Placentia Bay; he would like to ask me to do him a small favor. Could I take one package and land it on my way to Auvergne, where was one friend of his? A small matter, one five-gallon keg of rum, that rum which was of such trivial price in Saint Pierre, but on which the duty was so high in Newfoundland, and his friend was one poor man, one fisherman, who could not afford to pay the duty.

Now this Auvergne was twenty-five miles this side of any port of entry, and my first landing in Newfoundland, according to law, had to be at a port of entry. And so I told this chap that, and how I was liable to a heavy fine, and so on.

Yes, he discerned much truth in what I said, but consider that poor fisherman who could have his good rum merely for the landing-no other cost, none whatever-he, a friend of Mr. Miller, was sending it as a gift for the holiday Christmas time. And that rum-consider the piteously cold nights hauling the nets when a drink of good rum was so soothing, so grateful, so inspiring. And a little favor like that-the Colonial Government would not be-truly not-and if I did not take the rum that poor fisherman of Auvergne would have none in its stead. He could not afford it, the duty was so high-an impossible duty, as no doubt I knew.

I did know, and also I remembered many a drink of Saint Pierre rum I’d had on a cold night in Newfoundland and no duty paid on it, and many a cold night hauling herring when I didn’t have it, but wished I had, and would’ve gone a long ways to get it, duty or no duty. And then I remembered how Miller had been pretty decent to me that day-the little brooch he’d bought for the baby I could even then feel in my vest pocket-and I said all right, and when half an hour later a dory slipped up to the side of the Aurora and a keg was handed over the rail I didn’t ask any questions, but took and stowed it under the cabin run.

Next morning we sailed, and, after a four hours’ easy run, made Auvergne, a little port in Placentia Bay, tucked away between two headlands-one easterly, one westerly. Coming from Saint Pierre, it was, of course, the westward one we rounded. According to directions, I ground out two long and two short woofs on the fog-horn, at which a man pops from behind a big rock and waves a handkerchief three times.

Well, that was according to directions, too, and I drops a dory over the side with Sam Leary and Archie Gillis and the keg in it, and tells them to row over to the beach, ask the name of the lad that jumped from behind the rock, and if it was the same as on the tag to leave the keg with him. It was about a mile to the bit of beach, and the dory was almost there, when from behind the easterly headland comes the revenue-cutter. “That looks bad,” I says, “but we’ll say we’ve come for fresh water, that our tanks were leakin’, and that we had to have fresh water to cook dinner, and Sam and Archie in the dory-’specially Sam-they’ll have wit enough to empty the keg over the side and go on up as if they was really lookin’ for water.”

And that’s what would ‘a’ happened if it’d not been for the thirst that Sam Leary and Archie Gillis most always had with them. They see the revenue-cutter, and they knew just what they oughter done, but they couldn’t let go that keg without having one last drink out of it, and when they got that drink down they couldn’t help thinking what a pity to waste so much good rum, and taking a look back at the cutter, and seeing she was still half a mile away-“Time enough,” says Sam to Archie-“this lad behind the big rock’ll have something to stow it in,” and he and Archie walks without any hurry up to the rock where the man was hiding.

But instead of one man behind that rock, there was six, and right away there was a battle. Sam and Archie bowls over a couple and gets away up the beach and safe among rocks, but the revenue people got the keg. By that time the cutter was alongside us, and so they wouldn’t get the little Christmas keg I had tucked away for John Rose I pulled the plug out of it in no time and let it drain into her bilge. And that was an awful waste of good liquor, and I knew John Rose would grieve when I told him.

They had a clean case against me, and I was taken with the Aurora to Harbor Grace for trial. When they asked me what I had to say, I told ’em that I was simply bringing a little keg of rum from a man in Saint Pierre to his friend in Auvergne. They asked me the name of the man in Saint Pierre, and I said I didn’t know. They asked me the name of the man in Auvergne, and I said I didn’t know. “Was this the man?” they asks, and shows me the tag on the keg. I didn’t answer. And they went on to show there was no man in Auvergne by that name, and what were they to understand by that?

I told them I didn’t know-it was past me. And it cert’nly was. But they knew what to make of it, they said. There were people in Auvergne doing this illegal business under false names. And I had used a false name, and to try to tell the honorable court that I did not know the name of the man in Saint Pierre who gave me the rum, nor the man I was bringing it to-why, I knew very well who gave me the rum, and I knew who I was bringing it to, and if the truth were known, I knew a lot more about the rum-smuggling traffic. And they were going to put a stop to it.

And they laid a fine of twenty-five hundred dollars against my vessel. Maybe you might think that a pretty heavy fine, but that’s nothing. Almost any little local magistrate down that way can soak an American skipper or owner for almost any amount and get away with it. And how’s that? Well, we pay two or three dollars a barrel to Newfoundland fishermen for herring. Before we went down here the St. John’s merchants used to pay them about fifty cents a barrel, and it’s the St. John’s merchants who have all the money and came pretty near running Newfoundland.

Well, when my little local magistrate fines me twenty-five hundred dollars I said I wouldn’t pay it, that I’d stir things up at Washington, and so on, but they only laughed at me, and put her up for sale.

Now I’d ’ve bid her in myself if I’d had the money, but I only had a couple of hundred dollars in cash for running expenses with me. All my Newfoundland friends down that way were poor people-fishermen. If ’twas home we could ‘a’ raised plenty of money on her, but I was in Newfoundland, not Gloucester, and they rushed the thing through.

Well, the Aurora was bid in for just the amount of the fine, and that was a shame, the vessel she was, and she was bid in by a man nobody seemed to know. I went to the man who bid her in and told him the whole story, of what the vessel meant to me, of how I came to bring the rum over, and asked him would he give me the chance to communicate with some business men in Gloucester and buy her back, but he only laughs at me, and laughs in a way to make me think I was a child.

And in one way I was sort of a child, then, but I didn’t begin to realize how much of a child till I heard a voice giving orders to make sail on the Aurora. A coast steamer had just come in, and from her had come a crew of men to take the Aurora away, and this was the voice of the man who gave me the keg of rum that night in Saint Pierre. And while I was looking at him another man came alongside from the coast steamer, and this was Miller himself. If the Aurora had been within distance I would have jumped aboard; but she had her lower sails up then and was moving in pretty lively fashion out of the harbor.

I sat on a rock on the beach to think it over, and, “Alec Corning,” I said to myself at last-“they cert’nly tried you with the right kind o’ bait-and hooked you good.”

And I wondered how I could get square with Miller. No use trying to stir up Washington. There was an old skipper of mine, and they’d fined him three thousand dollars once for just a difference of opinion and he couldn’t pay it, and his vessel at that moment was being used for a light-ship, and all he’d been getting out of Washington were State Department letters for ten years. And he had cert’nly as much political pull as I had, for I had none.

No, no State Department for mine, I says at last, and ships my crew up to John Rose to Folly Cove, telling them to help John with the herring, and to tell him, too, to save the herring for me, that I’d get ’em back to Gloucester some way, and myself takes passage next day on the mail packet to Saint Pierre.

It was after dark of Christmas Eve when I landed at Saint Pierre. I went up to Argand’s Caffay, a place where all kinds of seafaring people used to go to get a drink and a bite to eat. There were quite a few in there now-French stokers from a steamer or two and half a dozen French man-of-war’s men from a French gun-boat that was lying in the harbor, I remember.

I didn’t see any American fishermen in Argand’s, but I knew that some of ’em would be drifting in before long. And by and by a few did, but me saying nothing to any of them, only sitting over to a table in a corner with a little bit of supper, and thinking that it was going to be a blue kind of Christmas for me, and a blue Christmas at home, too, for by this time Gloucester must’ve got the news of the seizure of the Aurora, and somebody’d surely passed the word to the wife.

I was sitting there, in the corner, figuring things out and not bothering much about the people coming and going, when somebody sits down at my table, and no sooner down than I felt his boot pressing mine under the table. I looked up, and it was Archie Gillis.

“A fine one you!” I breaks out-“where’s Sam?”

“Gi’me a chance now, skipper,” says Gillis, and orders a little something, and when the waiter was gone: “Sam’s not far away. I left him up to Antone’s rolling dice for turkeys. We came over, him and me, on a little French packet. Sam guessed you’d come back to Saint Pierre, and if you did he knew you’d drop in here. Sam’ll be here soon, he guessed you’d come here. We’ve been tryin’ to find out about the Aurora. She’s in the harbor, and they’re going to put out to-night.”

“For where?”

“Well, it’s a fishin’ trip she’s cleared for, but she’s got more than offshore bait in her hold.”

Archie had been talking straight down at his plate. Now he stood up, and from behind his napkin said: “There’s the skipper o’ the Aurora-tryin’ to collect his gang together. Don’t look around. But he’ll have hard work, ‘cause Sam and me spent most of th’ afternoon gettin’ ’em drunk-specially Sam. An’ Sam says don’t notice him when you see him come in, for the new Aurora gang don’t know yet that we was any of your crew.” Gillis tossed his napkin down and strolled over to the bar.

By and by I heard a familiar voice at the door-could ‘a’ heard it a block-and pretty soon Sam himself comes rolling in. He was carrying a monstrous turkey, and he spied Archie first thing. And, “Hullo, Archie boy,” he shouts. “Throw your binnacle lights on that, will you? Thirty pounds he weighs-like you see him-and twenty-five he’ll weigh, or I’m no fancy poultry raiser, when he’s ready for the oven.”

Gillis poked his finger into the breast of the turkey. “I wish we had him for to-morrow, Sammie. He’d make a nice little lunch, that lad.”

“Well, we’ll have him, Archie, for to-morrow. We’ll have him-the biggest turkey ever sailed out of ol’ Sain’ Peer. A whale, look at him.”

“Aye, some tonnage to him. But y’ never won him here, Sammie?”

“Win him here? Here? In Argand’s? Ever know anybody win anything here? No, sir. I won him up to ol’ Antone’s. Twenty-seven throws at twenty-five cents a throw.”

“Twenty-seven! You could ‘a’ bought two of ’em for that.”

“Bought? Of course I could ‘a’ bought; but who wants to buy a turkey Christmas time? Why, any fat old shuffle-footed loafer can take a basket under his arm and go down t’ the market and pay down his money and come away with a turkey or anything else he wants. ’Tain’t the getting him. Archie-it’s the winnin’ him from a lot of hot sports that think they c’n roll dice. Twenty-seven throws I took and with every throw a free drink of good old cassy-”

“Twenty-seven drinks o’ cassy! A lot you knew about what you was rollin’ by then, Sammie.”

“’Tain’t what I knew, but what I did, that counted, Archie, and it takes more than twenty-seven glasses o’ cassy to put my rail under. You oughter know that, Archie. I knew what I was doin’-don’t worry. An’ that twenty-seventh rollin’! I shook ’em up-spittin’ to wind’ard for luck-and lets ’em run. And out they comes a-bowlin’. Seventeen! Cert’nly a fine run-off that, I says, and drops ’em in again, limbers my wrist a couple o’ times, and then-two fives and a six-thirty-three! I gathers ’em in again, takes off my cardigan jacket, lays my cigar on the rail, jibes my elbows to each side-’Action,’ I says. ‘Action.’ Yer could hear ’em breathin’ a cable length all around me. I curls my fingers over the box, snaps her across an’ back again. The len’th of the table they rolled. Three sixes-fifty-one. ‘Mong doo,’ yells ol’ Antone-’Sankantoon-not since fifteen year do I see such play.’ Well, for another hour they rolled, but that fifty-one was still high-line. I took him away. And alongside this lad when we have him to-morrow, Archie, there’ll be a special bottle o’ wine-some red-colored wine. I don’t know the name of it. Good stuff, though, and ol’ Antone gave it to me-a special bottle.”

“An’ well he might arter all the money you spent there, Sammie.”

“An’ why not there as well as the next place? Why not there as well as here? Why not?” Sam glared down to the end of the bar, where Argand himself was taking in the cash, and his eyes, roaming round the room, caught mine and he winked. “A gen’l’man, ol’ Antone, which every caffy keeper ain’t-an’ because he’s a gen’l’man, and because some others ain’t-” Sam looked around to see if Argand was getting that-“because some others ain’t-because some others ain’t, I say-an’ I could name ’em, too, if I wanted-I could, yes.”

I caught another flash from Sam’s eyes, and, looking where his eyes pointed, I saw my Aurora captain and three or four of his crew, who had just come in.

“Name him, Sammie-name him,” urged Gillis. “Name the cross-breeded dog-fish-name ’im, Sammie, name ’im.”

All this was foolish enough, perhaps, but not to Henri Argand, who ran this place. He didn’t have reputation enough to be able to stand off and laugh at Sammie and Archie-probably not-for by and by, with four or five helpers, he comes with a rush and in ten seconds it was a mix-up. Sam and Gillis put their backs to the bar and gave battle. There were only the two of them, and the turkey, at first. A great bird a turkey-especially when you swing him by the ankles. Down went a waiter, and down went another waiter. Sam made a couple of tremendous swipes, and then down went the Aurora’s captain and one of his crew. The Aurora’s captain’s head, I thought, would be knocked clean off, the way the turkey hit him. Then over went a row of French stokers, and, with a back-handed sweep of the turkey, down went the bartender behind. And Sam and Archie, I could see, were working over to finish the Aurora’s new crew, and would’ve got ’em, too, but Argand, inside the bar, picks up a bung-starter, sneaks down and gives Sam and Archie a couple of slick taps over the ear, and down they went-just slid feet first away from the bar and on to the floor, flat-and as they slid Argand reaches over and grabs the turkey out of Sam’s hand.

That sort of put it up to our national pride-there was six or seven American fishermen in the place-and we waded in, and the French man-of-war’s men, they waded in, and it was one fine battle for maybe ten minutes, with nothing in the way of empty bottles, or full ones either, being overlooked. And when we couldn’t reach any more chairs or table legs we pulled off our sea boots, and, believe me, a big red jack with a three-quarter-inch sole and an inch and a half of heel-you grab a sea boot o’ that size-it don’t weigh more than four pounds or so-you grab it by the ears and get a full healthy swing on it and let it hit a man anywhere above the water-line, and he won’t mistake it for any sofa cushion.

It was a fine fight, and I think we’d ‘a’ won out only for the re-enforcements from outside. A liberty party of French man-of-war’s men come first, and then the police lads with the red trousers and the swords, and out we went into the street.

And when they got us out they locked the doors and barred the windows.

While I was pulling on my red jacks again, out under the lamp, on the corner of the street, up comes Sam and Archie. “Say, Alec,” begins Sam, “but you cert’nly laid ’em out with your sea boot.”

I thought Sam and Archie would be pretty well smashed up, but there wasn’t a mark on ’em except a couple of lumps behind their ears.

“Not us,” explained Sam. “Nothin’ happened to us except bein’ stepped on a few dozen times. But did y’ land the rest o’ the Aurora’s crew, Alec?”

“I don’t know. I swung for ’em, Sam.”

“You got ’em all right, and that’ll put it out o’ their heads to bother with the Aurora to-night, though”-he cocked up an ear to the whistle of a rising breeze-“it begins to feel like they wouldn’t ‘a’ gone out anyway-it’s breezing up so.”

“Where’s she layin’?”

“Off the end o’ the big dock. An’ if it keeps on breezin’ they won’t be goin’ out in the mornin’ either. A bad time anyway to put out on a cruise-Christmas Day. But what d’y’ say, Alec, if we take a look around the place?”

We’d got a pretty good start for Christmas Eve, and around Saint Pierre we went, Sam and Archie and four men of the Lucy Foster’s crew who’d been in the mix-up. They were ready to tear things up, but there wasn’t much to tear up, because everybody heard us coming, and whenever we’d get to a place, we’d find the doors locked and the windows barred. The only place not locked that night was the little cathedral, and by and by, when we found there was no place else to go, we all went in there.

It was a midnight mass being celebrated, and it was the sound of the choir voices coming from there that got us, and, Catholics or no, no matter, we all went in and heard mass, too, and when we came out, not feeling like trouble any more, we all went down to old Antone’s and turned in.

Christmas morning everybody was feeling better, all but Sam Leary and me. I was thinking of my vessel, and Sam of his big turkey. He wanted to get that turkey. He wasn’t going to leave Saint Pierre till he got it back. No, sir, he wasn’t. And he had a pretty good notion just where it was then. Up to Argand’s, cooking for Henri’s Christmas dinner. Or maybe him gettin’ fifty cents a plate for it for customers’ dinners. And he’d cut up for about forty platefuls. And for forty plates at fifty cents or two francs a plate. “Mong doo an’ sankantoon,” yells Sam all at once. “Come on, Archie-come on, fellows”-and up the street went Sam and Archie and the four of the Lucy Foster’s crew to see about the turkey.

But that wasn’t getting me my vessel, and I went down to the water-front to look for her. There she was, my lovely Aurora, to anchor in the stream, and there was me on the end of the dock looking at her, and that’s all I could do-look at her. She was lying to two anchors and with her mains’l standing. A little further off shore and even her two anchors couldn’t ’ve kept her from dragging and piling up on the rocks with that mains’l up, for a rocky harbor is Saint Pierre, and now it was blowing a living gale of wind.

While I was standing there on the big dock, along comes the trader Miller with another chap. He must ’ve seen me, but he pretended not, and I didn’t make any sign I saw him. He pointed out the Aurora to the man, saying a few things in French. And then he raised his voice.

“When it moderates she will depart-and with a car-go,” he said-the last in English, and by that I knew he meant it for me. “Go on,” I grit out, “go on, have your fun.”

“Yes, I pur-chased her ver-ry cheap,” goes on Miller, and then a great racket, and down the dock on the run comes Sam with his big turkey, which was all cooked, I could see, fine and brown-and Archie behind Sam and the four Lucy Foster men behind Archie and behind them again a bunch of Argand’s waiters and the gendarmes with the red trousers and swords.

There was a dory tied up to the end of the dock; I don’t know who owned it, but there it was. “Come on, jump in.” I yells, and all hands piled in, and we shoved off; all in one motion almost, and by the time Argand’s crowd got to the stringpiece we were a vessel length away, and pulling like homeward bound.

“Lay to it.” I kept saying to them.

“Aye, lay to it, and we’ll eat that turkey for Christmas yet,” yells Sam.

“Lay to it, and we’ll have more than the turkey.” I says.

“What’s that we’ll have, Alec?” hollers Sam.

“Pull to the Aurora and see.” I hollers back. It was blowing so hard we could hardly hear each other, and what with the chop we were driving the dory through we might well have been in swimming.

We made the Aurora, and, looking back as I leaped over her rail, I could see Miller running back up the dock.

“Hurry, fellows.” I yells to them, “Miller’s gone to head us off.”

As we drops onto the Aurora’s deck a head pops out of the fo’c’s’le companion-way. He looked like he’d just come out of a fine sleep. “You,” I yelled, “allay you-rauss-beat it,” and rushed him to the dory we’d just come aboard in. He looks up at me in the most puzzled way. Two more heads popped up out of the companion-way. “And allay you two,” yells Sam and Archie, and grabs ’em and heaves ’em into the dory, casts off her painter, and they drifts off like men in a trance. One minute they were sound asleep in their bunks and the next adrift and half-dressed in a dory in the middle of the harbor with a gale of wind roaring in their ears and a choppy sea wetting ’em down.

“In with her chain-anchor slack,” I calls, “and then up with her jibs,” which they did. “And now her fores’l-up with her fores’l.” Then we broke out her chain-anchor. I was to the wheel and knew the second the anchor was clear of the bottom by the way she leaped under me. “Don’t stop to cat-head that anchor,” I calls, “but cut her hawser.” They cut her hawser free, and with the big anchor-rope kinking through the hawse-hole, away went the Aurora, picking up, as she went, the chain-anchor with its eight or ten fathoms of chain still out and tucking it under her bilge; and there that anchor stayed, jammed hard against her bottom planking, while she rushed across the harbor.

“Now,” I said, “let’s see if we c’n work out of this blessed pocket without somebody having to notify the insurance companies afterward.”

All along the water-front the people by now were crowding to look at us. All they saw was an American fishing schooner with a crazy American crew trying to pick her way through a crowded harbor with her four lowers set in a living gale.

We were across the harbor in no time. “Stand by now-stand by sheets,” I sung out. Steady as statues they waited for the word, and when they got it-“Har-r-d a-lee-e!” Whf-f the steam came out of them, and the busiest of all was Sam Leary, with the big turkey between his feet.

As she came around I was afraid her anchor would take bottom and her way be checked. It did touch, but the Aurora spun on her toes so quick that before that anchor knew it was down she was off and flying free again.

All this time I was looking around for Miller and at last I saw him in a little power boat. He had the French gun-boat in mind that was sure, but his craft was making heavy weather of it, and before he was half-way to the gun-boat we were under her stern, on our shoot for the harbor entrance, and from the gun-boat’s deck they were peeping down on us, grinning and yelling the same as everybody else, waiting to see us pile up on the rocks somewhere.

But no rocks for the Aurora that Christmas Day. She knew what we wanted of her. There’s a spindle beacon in Saint Pierre harbor, white-painted slats on a white-painted rock sticking out of the water, and there was a French packet lying to the other side. We had to go between. I knew they were betting a hundred to one we’d hit one or the other.

We weathered the packet and squeezed by the beacon. The end of our long bowsprit did hit the white-painted slats, gave ’em a good healthy wallop, but that wasn’t any surprise-we figured on going close. We were by and safe, and looking back from the wheel to mark her wake swashing over the very rock itself, I had to whisper to her:

“Aurora, girl, you’re all I ever said you were.” But if you’d seen her, the big spars of her, the set of her rigging, the fine-fitting sails, the beautiful line of the rail, and the straight flat deck, you’d have to admit it wasn’t any surprise. You couldn’t ’ve done it with every vessel-but the Aurora! A great bit of wood, the Aurora!

And looking past her wake, I picked out Miller’s motor boat along inside the French gun-boat. But no gun-boat was worrying me then. They might chase me, but the gun-boat wasn’t afloat that could ’ve chased and caught the Aurora in that gale. A man didn’t need to be a French captain to know that.

But for fear they might chase us, I kept her going. And after we’d had time to get our breath, we took a peek into her hold. And it was loaded with cases-wine, brandy-liquors of all kinds. And the gang said: “How about it, skipper?” And I said: “Help yourself-you’ve earned it,” and they helped themselves.

And they had their promised Christmas dinner. The turkey had only to be warmed up. After it was warmed up, it was fine to hear Sam telling about the recapturing of it. “He was in the kitchen-just been hauled out the oven-and the chef, he was standing over him with a big carving knife, when I spots the pair of ’em through the window. ‘Stand by, fellows,’ I hollers, and jumps through the window and grabs the carving knife and chases cheffie out the room with it. And back through the window comes me and the turk. An’ they all hollers murder and comes after us. And look at him now! Twenty-five pounds he weighs-the biggest turkey, I’m tellin’ you, ever sailed out of ol’ Saint Peer. A whale, twenty-five pounds as he lies there. And four kinds of wine-four kinds. Cassie, champagne, claret, which you don’t have to drink ’less you want to, and that red-colored wine I don’t know the name of, but good stuff-I sampled it. And that’s what I call a Christmas dinner.”

And I guess it was. Pretty soon they were hopping around like a lot of leaping goats. The best-natured crowd ever you see, mind, but it was Christmas Day, and they’d done a good job; the blood was running wild inside them, and I let them run a while. And then when I thinks it time to begin to straighten them out, I looks them over and finally picking out Archie Gillis I says, ’Archie, I think you’re the drunkest! Take the wheel and soak it out.’

And Archie stood to the wheel, and up the cabin steps the rest of the gang kept passing him drinks of champagne when they thought I wasn’t looking.

By dark of that Christmas we shot into Folly Cove in Placentia Bay and came to anchor off John Rose’s wharf. And the Aurora’s crew were there helping John, and there was the load of herring John had promised. And he thought I’d come for the herring, but I hadn’t-not yet. I had a word in private with John, and he found a nice little place among the cliffs, and with John Rose and the Aurora’s crew it didn’t take long to stow those cases of wine where no stranger would find them in a hurry.

And when that was done I goes over the papers again. And sure enough, her papers read for a fishing trip to the Grand Banks. Her crew had been shipped for a fishing trip. Her gear, dories, bait (not much bait though) was all for a fishing trip. It was plain as could be, I had Miller under my lee. And so we put out again into the night, and before daylight we were back in Saint Pierre harbor again, and all hands ashore.

And when Miller woke up in the morning there was the Aurora laying to anchor in the stream just where she’d been the morning before. And we were having a nice little breakfast up to Antone’s when Miller and the governor and the gun-boat captain comes to get me. And Miller was going to arrest me, put me in irons, not a minute’s delay, not one, and I says “For what?” And Miller throws up his hands and repeats: “For what? He says for what? Mong Doo, for what?” And I says: “Yes, for what? What are you going to arrest me for? For a little excursion trip, a little run off shore, is it?-so’s to eat our Christmas turkey in peace?” I see that my play lay with the French naval officer, so I turns to him. “There was a turkey. Old Antone here will tell you that it belonged to one of my men, Mr. Leary here-that he won it fairly, and that the same turkey was stolen from him in Henri Argand’s. And Mr. Leary got it back. And they would not let him have it in peace, and so, to escape mistreatment, we jumped aboard the first vessel we saw in the stream and put out the harbor. You yourself doubtless, saw us.” He nodded. “Your whole crew saw us. The whole harbor saw us. There was no concealment.” I stopped for the French captain and the governor to get that. Miller was looking at me goo-goo-eyed, but both the officials nodded and said: “That is true.”

“And when we found ourselves safe out to sea, we had our dinner, our Christmas dinner-in the peace we had sought. And surely these gentlemen”-I bowed my best to the gun-boat captain and the magistrate-“do not consider that a crime-to ask to be allowed to eat our Christmas dinner in peace.”

Miller was fair up in the air by then-“You pi-rates-pi-rates.”

I leaps to my feet. “Pirates-to me? To these men? Simple honest fishermen who know only toil? Who toils harder than they? Pirates-to them! Why, if they were anything but the simplest and honestest set of men, they would have taken that vessel out of my hands and sold her-sold her in the States-and what could you or I or anybody have done about it? But did they-or I? No, sir. As soon as we had finished our Christmas dinner we brought her back.”

“But the wine?” shrieks Miller.

“What wine?”

“The wine-the wine-her cargo of wine.”

“Wine? Cargo of wine-what’s he talking about?” I looks at my crowd, and they all says: “Wine? Cargo of wine?-he’s crazy.”

I turns impatiently to the governor and French captain. “Gentlemen, this is a serious accusation, but easily settled. If there was wine in that vessel, surely her papers will say something of it. It will be on her manifest, that is certain.”

Now these two, the governor and the French naval officer, were honest men. “That is so,” they said. “He is quite right-quite right,” and looked at Miller, and Miller, with his eyes like door-knobs, looks at me. And I gives him a wink with my wind’ard eye and he near blew up.

But he begins to see a thing or two, so he goes off with the French officials, but before we had finished smoking our after-breakfast pipeful he comes back-alone now-and says: “What do you propose?” And I said: “Within a thousand miles of here is a friend of mine with a lot of wine-as good a lot as the Aurora had in her hold yesterday-maybe a couple of dozen quarts shy-you know, a Christmas dinner, and so on-and only last night my friend was figuring it up, and he thought there was twenty thousand dollars’ worth in this lot of his, and that without figuring in the duty-but he don’t care for wine much-but he does love a good Vessel, and he was looking the Aurora over and he said he’d be willing to exchange all that wine for the Aurora. I told him that the Aurora only cost you twenty-five hundred, but he said, ’No matter, I have a weakness for the Aurora,’ this friend of mine. Of course there’ll be a few little extra expenses you’ll have to pay for, like the hawser and the big anchor cut away and the keep of a crew for a week over in Newfoundland, and so on, but that won’t be much-five hundred dollars ought to cover it all.”

And Miller gave back the Aurora and paid over the five hundred, and I gave him an order on John Rose for the wine. And then I took the little baby’s brooch out of my pocket and handed it back to him.

And then I sailed over to Placentia Bay in the Aurora and took twenty-one hundred barrels of herring off John Rose and put out, and, getting the first of a stiff easterly, the Aurora carried it all the way to Gloucester. And I was home to the wife and baby by New Year’s. And the baby got a good brooch. I could afford it. From the profits of twenty-one hundred barrels of fine fat herring I could well afford it.

I haven’t seen Miller since, but they say he’s shyer than he used to be of simple American fishermen.