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"Telephone in for a tug. We're in nice shape, restin' easy, but our rudder's gone an' the after web o' the crank shaft's busted. Telephone in, my man, an' I'll make it up to you when we get to a safe anchorage. Who are you?" "Lindstrom, of the Golden Gate Life Saving Station." "I'll not forget you, Lindstrom. My owners are Yankees, but they're sports." "All right. I'll telephone. On my way!"
May this Ulysses never reach his home! or, if the Fates have ordered that he should reach it, may he come alone, all his comrades lost, and come to find sore trouble in his house!" And as he ended he hurled another mighty rock, which almost lighted on the rudder's end, yet missed it as if by a hair's breadth.
The slack sail shifts from side to side, The boat, untrimm'd, admits the tide, Borne down, adrift, at random tost, The oar breaks short, the rudder's lost. Gay's Fables. I have tagged with rhyme and blank verse the subdivisions of this important narrative, in order to seduce your continued attention by powers of composition of stronger attraction than my own.
May this Ulysses never reach his home! or, if the Fates have ordered that he should reach it, may he come alone, all his comrades lost, and come to find sore trouble in his house!" And as he ended he hurled another mighty rock, which almost lighted on the rudder's end, yet missed it as if by a hair's breadth.
There does not appear from Rudder's account to have been, in his time at least, any pageant commemorative of the achievement of the lady to whom the parishioners reckoned themselves to owe their privileges; nor have I been able to trace one by local inquiries. But the tradition is at St. Briavels unmistakably connected with a religious and social rite.
"What do you mean by running me down?" shouted Tom angrily. "I I didn't do it on purpose," returned Andy contritely. "I was seeing how near I could come to you when my steering gear broke. I hope I haven't damaged you." "My rudder's broken," went on Tom "and I've got to put back to repair it. I ought to have you arrested for this!"
The old man, who had finished with the rusty reel, deigned to look at Cleggett again. "Dunno as I said." "But who DOES own her?" "She's stuck fast in the mud and her rudder's gone." "I see you know a lot about ships," said Cleggett, deferentially, giving up the attempt to find out who owned her. "I picked you out for an old sailor the minute I saw you."
May this Ulysses never reach his home! or, if the Fates have ordered that he should reach it, may he come alone, all his comrades lost, and come to find sore trouble in his house!" And as he ended he hurled another mighty rock, which almost lighted on the rudder's end, yet missed it as if by a hair's breadth.
The slack sail shifts from side to side, The boat, untrimm'd, admits the tide, Borne down, adrift, at random tost, The oar breaks short, the rudder's lost. Gay's Fables. I have tagged with rhyme and blank verse the subdivisions of this important narrative, in order to seduce your continued attention by powers of composition of stronger attraction than my own.
The men had to let the boat slide down the grassy channel, which was, as it were, bevelled in the low bulge of the Point. They had not long to wait. The brig suddenly came round, as though her helm had been put hard up. "Rudder's gone," said one of the fishermen. Sea after sea struck the vessel astern, and threatened to swamp her, but she managed always to shake herself.
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