It is known that a Briar Islander, fish or no fish on his hook, never flinches from a sea.

He just tends to his lines and hauls or "saws." Nay, have I not seen my old friend Deacon W.D---, a good man of the island, while listening to a sermon in the little church on the hill, reach out his hand over the door of his pew and "jig" imaginary squid in the aisle, to the intense delight of the young people, who did not realize that to catch good fish one must have good bait, the thing most on the deacon's mind.
[Illustration: The deacon's dream.] I was delighted to reach Westport.

Any port at all would have been delightful after the terrible thrashing I got in the fierce sou'west rip, and to find myself among old schoolmates now was charming.

It was the 13th of the month, and 13 is my lucky number--a fact registered long before Dr.Nansen sailed in search of the north pole with his crew of thirteen.

Perhaps he had heard of my success in taking a most extraordinary ship successfully to Brazil with that number of crew.
The very stones on Briar's Island I was glad to see again, and I knew them all.