All at once there came a breath of wind. At first it was as soft as an angel's whisper. Then it grew stronger and ruffled the sea. Every man lifted his eyes and looked at his mates. Each was struggling with a painful idea that perhaps he was the victim of a delusion of the sense. But the chill breath of the wind was indeed among them. "Isn't it beginning to puff up from the sou'-west?" asked one, in a hoarse whisper.
At that Davy Cain jumped to his feet. The idea of the supernatural had already gone from him, at least. "Now for the sheets, and to make sail," he cried.
As mate formerly, Davy constituted himself skipper now.
One after one the men got up and bustled about. Their limbs were well–nigh frozen stiff.
"Heave hearty, men; heave and away."
All was stir and animation in an instant. Pulling at the ropes, the men had begun to laugh—yes, with their husky, grating, tear-drowned voices even to laugh.
"Bear a hand, men. We're drifting fast into the down-stream to Contrary," cried Davy.
Then a gruesome sense of the ludicrous took hold of him. It was the swift reaction from solemn thoughts.
"Lay on, Quilleash, my man. Why, you're going about like a brewing-pan. What are your arms for, eh?"
The old fellow's eyes, that had been dim with tears a moment ago, glistened with grisly mischief.
"Who hasn't heard that a Manxman's arms are three legs?" he said, with a hungry smile.
How the men laughed! What humor there was now in the haggard old saw!
