were beating up the Straits to the 
Labrador when a great gale swooped 
down on us and drove us like a scared wild 
duck into a cleft in the mountains, where the 
breakers roared and the seals barked on the black rocks 
and the reefs bared their teeth on either side, like the long 
jaws of a wolf, to snap at us as we passed. 
In our flight we had picked up a fisherman—snatched 
him out of his helpless punt as we luffed in a smother of 
spray, and dragged him aboard, like an enormous frog, at 
the end of the jib sheet—and it was he who now stood 
at the wheel of our little schooner and took her careening 
in through the tickle of Harbor Woe. There, in a deso¬ 
late, rock-bound refuge on the Newfoundland coast, the 
