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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Boys, the squall's coming! Up with the anchor quick!" "Dere's plenty tam," grumbled Mosey Louis, who hated to leave the fish. "None of de oder boats is goin' in yit." The squall struck the boat as he spoke. She lurched and staggered. The water was tossing choppily. There was a sudden commotion all through the fleet and sails went rapidly up.
Out of the narrow canal we slid, into a wide expanse of water, cold as liquid steel under the moon, and tossed into little sharp-edged waves which sent "Mascotte" rolling from side to side, so choppily that I was glad to get into the next canal, even narrower than the first, such a mere slip of water that cows on shore, vague, shadowy, shapes, puffed clouds of clover-sweet breath in our faces as we leaned toward them from the deck.
His head twitched to one side and he saw John Bard rising to his elbow. His racing stride shortened choppily. "Anthony!" He could not choose but halt, groaning to give up the chase, and then sped back to the fallen man.
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