He lost his interest in the wreckin’ after a while, and natural, too.  He hadn’t to build up his family’s name or provide a livin’ for anybody by it.  And her aunt still lingered, she wrote.  And then I wrote that I would give up the business if she said so, and go out there.  I could begin again—­there was great shippin’ on the lakes—­better sell out a hundred wreckin’ plants than be so much apart, for it’s terrible to be comin’ from the sea and never find the woman afore ye.  But she telegraphed to wait, she would be home soon, and she wanted to see me, too, about something partic’lar.  That was the night before the Portland breeze—­in the year o’ the war with Spain—­yes, ’98 that would be, the year the Portland went down on Middle Bank with all on board.  A foolish loss that, and nobody ever went to jail for it; but it’s mostly that way, nobody sufferin’ for it—­but the families o’ the lost ones—­when passenger ships go down at sea.

There was half a dozen steamboat firms telegraphin’ and telephonin’ the morning after that storm, and I had to leave without waitin’ till she got home.  There was a wreck off Cape Cod, and that kept me away a week, and I was hurryin’ back by way of Boston.  And I saw him—­me hurryin’ up Atlantic Avenue to take the train and him headed for the docks.  I hailed him.  There was a rumor—­’twas in the papers—­that I’d gone down with the wreck I’d been workin’ on off Cape Cod—­Chatham way—­but of course no one who knew me well believed it.  But he must’ve believed it, for—­“What, you!” he says—­not even puttin’ in the “Captain” that he never before forgot.  I missed that little word from him—­and he didn’t look at me the same—­him that had always such a friendly way with me.  He seemed to be in a great hurry, and so I left him without more talk.  He did not even tell me that the Rameses was in the harbor and he leavin’ on her, but the thought of that came later.

I had to stop off at Newport, to get things started for another wreck there, and that took me the rest of that day and the next, and then I was all ready to take the night boat for New York, but my oldest boy came hurryin’ down the dock to me, and an old lady—­no—­not so old, but lookin’ old—­with him.  And they told me how the Rameses, that had left Boston the morning before, ‘d been wrecked off Gay Head durin’ the night and sunk; and this was his mother, and she wanted me to go to the wreck right away and see if I could find and bring up his body.

I wanted to go home—­a week of days and nights—­and I was tired, too, and not easy to tire me in those days, but I thought of him and the trust he had in the skipper that didn’t know his business, and I looks at my boy and at his mother, and Sarah’s face came to me; and who’s to gainsay a woman whose son lies drowned?  So my boy and me we put out that night and was there next morning in our big wreckin’-tug.