A Gloucester swordfish-boat drifted alongside, a man in the little pulpit on the bowsprit flourished his harpoon, his bare head plastered down with the wet.

"And all's well!" he sang cheerily, as though he were watch on a big liner.

"Wouverman's waiting fer you, Disko.

What's the news o' the Fleet ?" Disko shouted it and passed on, while the wild summer storm pounded overhead and the lightning flickered along the capes from four different quarters at once.

It gave the low circle of hills round Gloucester Harbor, Ten Pound Island, the fish-sheds, with the broken line of house-roofs, and each spar and buoy on the water, in blinding photographs that came and went a dozen times to the minute as the _We're Here_ crawled in on half-flood, and the whistling-buoy moaned and mourned behind her.