"If Bill knows enythin' he'll up stick when we git these shiners iced," said Flannagan.
"What's coming off?"
"See thim black imps trailin' us. That's what's comin' off. There's dirt close aboard."
The pod of mackerel took all the ice we had and Captain Andrews put the "stick up," heading for Portland. We made it on the front of a sou'east gale that ripped the New England coast from Monomoy to Eastport.
"What'd I tell yer — them burds is the souls of heathen sailors an' they wander aroun' ahead of gales."
I suppose by "heathen" Flannagan meant any seaman who was not a Catholic.
"I'll remember that — and now we're ashore let's go up to Safford's and have a — — — good dinner."
While taking a thrashing in a tide rip off Monomoy several Stormies came up into the wind as lightly as butterflies, easing their wings in hollows, beating hard on the crests and envied by me as I worked the Phalarope clear.
Well — ah — fare you well — you must say good-bye to me, my love!
Down — set your liquor down — the girl from off your knee.
The wind has come to say
You must take me while you may.
We're bound for Mother Carey!
Roll her down to Mother Carey!
Where she feeds her Chicks at sea.
Rare visitant off Newfoundland and New England coasts.