The Democratic advocate., 1907-06-21

provided he could withstand the buffeting
of the fierce waves through half-mile
pull. He must decide quickly, for the
power of choosing would soon be taken
from him.
A wise man does not waste his strength
fruitlessly. Dixon hated to lose his dory
and his twenty dollar cod. But what were
these compared with life? His choice once
made, he lost no time He opened his
left hand; the painter jerked away. Back
shot the dory, tossing her bow, and dlsap-
peared in the storm.
The fisherman grasped the gaff with
both hands, and pulled himself up to the
barrel. 1t was now his sole hope. He
tried to raise himself upon it, but the
buoyant cask was not large enough to sup
port his weight, and sank under water.
Finally he got it under his chest in such
position that it kept his face well above
the surface.
1t was now almost dark. The snow
drove thickly into his eyes, and he could
see only few yards over the tossing crests.
How long would his mates wait before
hauling in the buoy? Five hundred
fathoms to windward in that shrieking gale,
they of course knew nothing of his mishap,
and would be sure to give him plenty of
time to find the barrel He hoped that
they would not wait long, for in that icy
sea a mans power of endurance was
limited
The minutes dragged slowly on. Would
they never begin to get the buoy-line
aboard? A dozen times he thought they
had started pulling; but the wind and sea
drove against him with such fury that it
was impossible to be sure whether or not
he was moving toward the schooner. At
last steady succession of abrupt snatches
through the water told him that they were
heaving in the line.
Could he live and hold on long enough
to be dragged three thousand feet through
the freezing sea? The wave-crests broke
above his head. Now and then he was
entirely submerged by some big fellow.
Cruelty bruised and strained by the crash
ing combers, he hugged the iron bound
cask, knowing that that steady rythmical
pull was every second bringing him little
nearer the vessel.
Dixon's eyes were spray blinded. His
bare head was crusted with brine and sleet.
Dazed by the ceaseless battering, he let go
with one hand the fingers of the other
were loosening. just in time his senses
came back. He regained his grip, and
held on with clutch of death. Once let
the barrel escape his grasp, and it could
never be regained.
Somewhere in the blackness far to lee
ward his empty dory was tossing, if indeed
it had not already upset. He thought OF
it ruefully, smitten with poignant regret
at the memory of the big fish that would
have won the prize. But not for moment
was he sorry that he had cast in his lot
with the dancing barrel.
On board the Lance they were pulling,
discouraged and heartsick. The rope came
in so easily that they knew the dory could
not be at its end The probability was
that Dixon had been unable to reach the
buoy, and was drifting to leeward in his
boat 1t was more than doubtful if they
ever saw him again.
Dixon felt that he could hold on but little
longer. The power Of thought had nearly
been beaten out of him. He seemed to
have been dragged for hours through the
swash of the sea- His body was numbed
almost to paralysis. A dozen times he
had imagined the schooner rs light in the
gloom to windward, but had found himself
mistaken. He was possessed by dull
conviction that he would never reach her.
An unwonted smoothness Of the sea sur
prised him. He raised his head, and
there, not thirty feet away, shone the lam
tern in the Lance's forerigging. AS her
deck rolled down, he saw the swaying line
of weary men heaving in the rope: At
the same instant they caught sight OF him,
and gave a shout of surprise and JOY:
Very carefully the last few feet were coiled
in, until willing arms hauled him over the
rail-
Tucked in bunk near the stove and
filled with hot coffee, he told regretfully of
the record breaking fish he had lost. At
the end of his story two men went out
Presently they returned, carrying by the
gills the biggest cod he had ever set eyes
on. 1t was considerably over five feet
long
"Stand up, Christ they shouted to a
wiry little Cape Verde Islander. Sus-
pended glistening in the lamplight, the
monster came almost to the top of the
Portuguese fisherman's head. As Dixon
looked, the bitterness of loss went out of
his heart.
"Good boy, Christ said he. 'Tm
glad you got him. I don't feel half SO
bad about losing mine, since he couldn't
have won the prize
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