say. I could see the waves by their white crests a-gleaming through the darkness, and when the seventh came along I emptied the oil on to it, and I give you my word, Master Charles, the troubled waters quieted down and passed gently under our counter. Meanwhile, the skipper, as it was getting lighter, was busy a-cyphering, and now passed along a written message to me. He’d figured it out that there being forty gallons in the cask, the oil would only last to the 280th wave. ‘We're just past the 275th,’ says he, ‘for I’ve been a-counting them, and what’s to be done now?’”
“‘Hold on,’ says I.
“After the oil gave out, the very next seventh wave—a whopper— struck the vessel a tremendous blow, knocking the rudder clean out of the sternpost, and starting some of the planks, whereby she began to leak badly. Something must be done quickly. The skipper, who had a soft heart, was for giving the poor birds a chance of freedom. So we opened the after hatch, and out they flew. Just as we were a-going to lift the small hatch forrud to free the rest I says to the captain, ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘why don’t me and you follow the fowls of the air?’
“He supposed our troubles had driven me dotty.
“‘Where’s your wings, Benjamin?’ says he.
“‘Under hatches,’ says I, ‘and so I won’t deceive you. There’s just room for the two of us on this here hatch, and we're light-weight for want of victuals; ’twould be holiday work for fifty great strapping birds to take us in tow.’ Says the captain, ‘It’s a dodge worth trying.’ He’d been in the poultry line himself when a nipper had the captain, so he chooses fifty of the finest birds, while I fastened a rope to each of the four corners of the hatch and tied them together. To this we tethered the eagles and condors, seated ourselves, and cast loose. ’Twas not a moment too soon, for as we rose in the air, the Jolly Dogs took a whopping big plunge, and down she sank beneath the billows. ’Twas a narrow squeak for us of a watery grave, Master Charles. How-somever, there we were, and the birds at once steered for home.”
“But how could they know the way, Ben?”
“Ah, just let me ask you a question, Master Charles. How do the fowls of the air migrate without a chart or a compass? Nobody knows, yet they always find their way. I can only tell you that when morning dawned land was beneath us, and we were heading straight for the top of an Andy. There were fields of snow and rivers of ice, and the cold! ‘Twas enough to freeze the marrow in the bones. Says the skipper,
