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The Little White Mare was avenged.
THE BLACK DOOR
By Gordon Seagrove
“Lieutenant Townley,” said Captain Von Dee sharply, “as a spy you will be executed in two hours. Pursuant to my custom you will be given a choice in the matter. Either you may elect to be shot in the customary manner, or you may pass through the Black Door which you see behind me. State your choice when the hour comes.”
Von Dee—“Von Dee the whimsical” they called him in the trenches—turned to his reports while Lieutenant Townley was led back to the cell. A great hopelessness fell upon the latter. So this was the end then? All his hopes, his plans with regard to marriage to Cecile were to be swept away. It was difficult to realize that in another hour he would be separated by an unfathomable void from the woman whom he loved like life itself and trusted like no man had ever trusted woman before.
“Shot ... or the Black Door....” Von Dee’s words came back to him. What horrible fate—which legend held was worse than death—met those who passed beyond the Black Door? He knew that not one of death prisoners had dared to pass beyond it. Each had chosen death at the hands of the firing squad.
A half hour passed. Then, suddenly, a scrap of paper fluttered into his hands. He opened it and read:
“Choose the Black Door. I know.” It was signed Cecile.
Now the hour for the execution could not come soon enough. Cecile had remembered! Cecile had saved him. Perhaps behind the Black Door he would only be maimed or crippled and could go back to Cecile. As the guards led him into Von Dee’s quarters his heart pounded gladly. In the gloom of the room he could see Von Dee and a stranger talking. In another moment he would tell Captain Von Dee that he, Lieutenant Townley, elected to pass through the Black Door.
He waited. Apparently his presence was not noted. He could hear scraps of conversation: “I’ve always maintained,” Von Dee was saying, “that, no matter how brave a man, he will choose a known form of death rather than an unknown....”
There was a lull, and then the other voice said: “And you are the only one who knows what lies beyond the Black Door?”
“No,” Von Dee answered his brother. “A woman knows.” Then he added with a light laugh: “She was a former mistress of mine!”
Lieutenant Townley heard, trembled, turned white, then stiffened. Von Dee was before him, talking. “Well, Lieutenant,” he said, “do you elect the Black Door?”
“I do not!” the prisoner answered. Von Dee nodded to the guards who led Lieutenant Townley away. A moment later came the report of the firing squad on the drill grounds.
“What did I tell you!” cried Von Dee to his brother. “Lieutenant Townley, one of the bravest, couldn’t face the unknown. He went the usual way.” For several moments he puffed his cigar silently, then: “Birwitz,” he asked suddenly, “do you know what lies beyond the Black Door?”
The younger Von Dee shook his head.
“Freedom,” said Captain Von Dee. “And I’ve never met a man brave enough to take it!”
THE MAN WHO TOLD
By John Cutler
Toward midnight in the smoking-room of the trans-Atlantic liner Howard, the author, held forth on realism and romance. In one of his pauses another of the company broke in:
“Realism,” said the interrupter, “is but the word with which those who can see nothing but the ordinary and humdrum in life try to excuse their blindness to the romances that unfold themselves all about us every day The last time I heard the doctrine of realism preached was in the home of a wealthy New Yorker who declared that in his life there had never been the least tinge of the unusual or the romantic. He had never fallen in love and never had any adventures. Three days later in the morning he was found seated in a chair on the piazza of his summer home dead from a stab wound through the heart. Three hundred thousand dollars in cash which he had received from the sale of a block of bonds was missing from his office safe where he had placed it the preceding late afternoon because his bank was closed. The only clue found to the murderer was a blood-stained stiletto which was discovered between the Old and the New Testaments in a big family Bible on a high shelf in the library of the murdered man’s summer home. The mystery of the murder was never solved.”
“The plot of a very interesting story,” commented Howard and went on with his monologue. A little later the party broke up. On his way to his stateroom Winton, who had been one of them, dropped in at the wireless room and sent a message.
Three days later at the New York pier the man who had interrupted Howard was arrested for murder committed four years before. “I was once a member of the force,” explained Winton to
Howard; “that stiletto was never found until he told where to look for it that night in the smoking-room.”
THE UNANSWERED CALL
By Thomas T. Hoyne
Six months of married life had not staled the two great adventures in each week day of Delia Hetherington’s placid existence—the morning leavetaking and the evening return of her husband. His departure was a climax of lingering kisses, admonitions, and exhortations; his return a triumph. Did he not put all to the touch with Fortune at every parting and go forth to strive all day, a dauntless hero, ’mid motor juggernauts and rushing trolley cars, ’neath dangling safes and dropping tiles, beside treacherous pitfalls and yawning manholes? But ever he bore a charmed life and returned to his love in the dark of the evening with thrilling tales of his salesmanship and of repartee to his boss.
Delia hummed a plaintive, childish melody as she set the little, round dining-table for two persons. As is the habit of brides, she laid the places side by side instead of opposite each other. A light shadow of curiosity flickered across her mind, and she carefully laid a saucer on the table to note the effect of a third place. She snatched it up again, blushing, although there was no one else in all the length and breadth of the four-room apartment where she and Fred, upheld by the installment plan, had built their nest. She resumed her singing, bird-like in its thin simplicity. Such a song, one could imagine, Mrs. Cock Robin sang while awaiting the homecoming of her mate.
A soft knocking at the back door drew Delia from happy contemplation of the glistening forks that lay beside the two plates on the dining-room table. She hurried into the kitchen, wisely remembering Fred’s insistence that she must never unlock the screen door to a stranger before she discovered his design. No welldressed youth seeking to pay his way through college by getting
subscriptions for “The Woman’s Life and Fashion Bazaar” could find in his patter the countersign to win him admittance; no grizzled gypsy with shining tins to barter for old shoes knew the magic word to make the hook fly up under Delia’s cautious hand.
But the man who stood on the narrow porch, panting like a Marathon runner, was none of these.
“The steps,” he gasped, pressing one hand over his heart, “too much for me.”
To climb the four flights of stairs to the Hetherington apartment at the top of the building was a test for a strong man. He who knocked at the screen door was slight in build and looked ill.
With quick sympathy Delia unhooked the door and pushed it open.
“Come in and sit down a minute,” she said gently.
The man staggered across the threshold and dropped into the chair she offered him. The screen door shut with a slam.
He shivered as if a draft of icy air had struck him.
“Close the inside door—quick,” he panted; and Delia, under the spell of her sympathy, obeyed without thought.
“It’s too bad to trouble you,” he said nervously, “but I’m not a well man.”
Delia handed him a glass of water. He sipped at it between gasps.
“Don’t light the gas,” he cried sharply
Delia had scratched a match, for night was falling rapidly. She snapped out the little flame and looked at him half afraid.
“Just let me rest a moment,” he said. “There’s no harm in me. I couldn’t hurt a baby if I wanted to.”
He almost whimpered as he looked curiously around the room.
“You’re all alone, eh? I’m glad you weren’t afraid to let me in. Some women would have left me standing out there.”
“What would I be afraid of?” she asked simply, feeling uneasy nevertheless.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered irritably. “Only most people seem to be afraid of a sick man. They don’t want him around. They won’t give him a chance.”
“That can’t be so,” said Delia. “Every one naturally feels sorry for a sick person.”
“No, they don’t,” he contradicted roughly. “Do you know what would happen if I fainted in the street? Do you think any one would help me? Not much. I could lie there like a dog while the crowd went by. The men would laugh; the women would say, ‘Disgusting.’ I know. It has happened to me.”
He coughed slightly and finished the glass of water.
A faint sound outdoors caught his ear. He stepped quickly to the window and peered out. Starved and unkempt he looked, but a quaint neatness about his clothing hinted at the regular habits of a workingman.
He turned to Delia suddenly.
“I’ve got to tell you,” he whispered swiftly. “They’re coming up here. You’ve got some sympathy for a man and you ain’t afraid.”
She looked at him and began to understand.
“I’m a thief,” he said bluntly, and gulped on the word. “I stole a few dollars and the police are after me.”
“A thief!” she cried, staring at him. “I have no money.”
“I know, I know,” he mumbled in desperate hurry. “I don’t want to rob you. I want to get away. I was forced to do it.”
“Forced!”
“We were starving. I’m married, the same as you are. Wouldn’t your husband steal for you?”
He stopped short and listened. Loud knocking sounded somewhere below.
“All I want you to do is to let me out the front door; and don’t tell. Say you didn’t see me.”
Already he had shuffled through the dining-room, Delia following him into the narrow, short, dark hall.
“If any one knocks don’t answer,” he whispered. “Don’t light any lights.”
He opened the front door cautiously.
“They’ll think no one’s here.” He turned and looked at her. “It’ll give me a chance—just a chance is all I want. You’ll never be sorry.”
He closed the door softly behind him.
Delia stood listening, breathless.
Voices questioned and answered on the porch below, but she could not distinguish the words. She felt as if she herself were guilty of some crime.
Suddenly the telephone bell on the wall beside her rang with startling abruptness.
She did not move. Heavy feet were mounting the stairs to the back porch.
Again the telephone rang out against the stillness in the little apartment.
She dared not move, but stood pressed against the wall. Through the darkness she could see the doorway into the lighter kitchen like a black frame.
The telephone rang again, long and insistently.
Heavy knocking shook the back door, but it got no response from Delia. There was a pause of silence and then a voice cried out with the rapidity of excitement:
“No one’s home, Jim. He couldn’t get through here.”
This was what she had been listening for.
The noise of descending footsteps died away.
Delia sprang to the telephone and waited eagerly. But the bell did not ring again.
“Any trace of him, Jim?” asked the desk sergeant, as the big patrolman entered the police station.
“Naw. Anybody identify the body?”
“He had cards on him that gave his name and address. The poor guy never knew what hit him. He didn’t get the chance to give up his dough; one white-livered sneak croaked him from behind with a piece of lead pipe. We called up his home, but couldn’t raise anybody.”
THE WOMEN IN THE CASE
By Mary Sams Cooke
Jack Burroughs’ dog broke from him and made a sudden dive down the first opening. The usual clear whistle made no impression. “Jim” was off. Jack quickly followed, and to his relief saw a big Irishman patting “Jim’s” head; “Jim,” with unmistakable signs of delight, jumping up and down and rubbing against the man.
That started the strange friendship between Jack Burroughs, lawyer, sportsman, and Dennis O’Sullivan.
Dennis lived in the last house on “Grasshopper Hill.” It was a little less ramshackle, a little more independent looking than the rest of the row that faced on a small bluff above the railroad tracks, and its garden bloomed like a rose. Dennis himself was large, burly, rather red of face, but with the twinkling blue eyes and the genial courtesy of the true son of Erin.
Later Dennis brought out to the almost palatial suburban home of Jack Burroughs rare bulbs and old-fashioned flowers; Jack got Dennis to help him in making his own garden beautiful.
As the war dragged its fearful way along they, strange to say, never even mentioned it, until one day in June suddenly Jack said: “Dennis, I have written to a cousin in England to know if it’s possible for me to get a commission in the English army.”
Dennis looked up from the border he was working and demanded:
“For why and I would like to know?”
“Well, Dennis, you see, my great-grandfather was an Irish patriot, and came over here during Emmet’s rebellion; but now Ireland needs me, and I’m going.”
“From what part of the ould country was yer grandfather?”
“Oh, from near Lough Neagh.”
“Are ye maning County Antrim, Misther Burroughs?”
“Sure, Dennis.”
“Thin I’m yer boy, and will go with ye.”
Jack was rather startled, but on second thought he decided to take the risk.
“Dennis, will you sign the pledge if I take you?”
Dennis’ blue eyes twinkled, and with a comical smile he lifted his cap from his fiery head and said, “Shure, yer honour.”
Both gardens bloomed gayly in the June sunshine; both men talked and worked and planned in secret for their swift going. At last the letter came.
Jack, as gay as a boy, went first to Dennis. “Come out to the house to-night, Dennis, and we will make our final arrangements.”
“Ye can count on me, and I will be that grateful to ye for the whole o’ me life.”
With this letter held high, Jack, with “Jim” at his heels, gayly waved it to a sweet girl that he caught a glimpse of on a neighbouring porch.
“Can I come in, Eleanor?” he called.
The blue eyes gave him welcome. He sat on the lower step and, leaning against the post, looked up at the girl.
“Eleanor, I am off to the war!”
The smile froze on the sweet lips, the slender, strong hands clenched, but the girl’s voice was quiet as she answered:
“I hardly understand, Jack.”
Then he eagerly explained how his cousins in England, with the same strain of Irish blood in their veins, were fighting—nay, some dying—on the battlefields in France, and call had come to him, and he must go.
He stood tall and straight, his gray eyes flashing—those eyes she so loved—his head thrown back. Ah! The girl felt he would lead his men even unto death. He gave his warm, merry smile; surely she would understand.
“Sit down, Jack dear. Yes, I understand,” she smiled into those eager eyes; “but you do not understand. No, wait, please—you are an American, Jack, first, last, and all the time; and now soon, only
too soon, your country might need all such men as you. You cannot desert your country now! You cannot, cannot, Jack, dear!”
And Jack understood.
How to tell Dennis, how to break the news to him; what was he to say?
As later he saw the big man walking slowly up the path Dennis touched his cap to Jack.
“Will ye pardon me pipe, Misther Burroughs, being that low in me mind I kinnot spake without it?”
Jack smiled.
“I am a bit low meself, Dennis.”
“Well, I had best out with it like a man, Misther Burroughs. I went to spake to me Nora and she said, ‘Dennis O’Sullivan, have ye lost the little bits o’ wits ye be blessed with? Not one foot do ye stir from your own country. Did ye not become an American citizen this five years back?’ And, shure, Misther Burroughs, ’twas true the word she spake!”
THE CAT CAME BACK
By Virginia West
Leonard Raymond was temperamentally a naturalist. Had circumstances not compelled him to make a living he would no doubt have been an Audubon, or a Gray. He spent his spare moments studying the habits of the living things about town, English sparrows, pigeons, stray cats, homeless dogs, and so forth. Old man Peterkin, whose wife kept the boarding-house at which Raymond was getting his meals, who did nothing but collect the board bills, grow fat, and hold the position of church deacon, had told him that the crows in the cupola of the Eutaw Place synagogue had been nesting there for eleven years. Raymond did not know whether to regard that as an interesting item about crows, or as evidence against Mr. Peterkin’s veracity However, Mr Peterkin and the crows have nothing to do with this story.
In the backyard of the Linden Avenue house in which he lived with his married sister Raymond raised flowers, and on Sundays and holidays he would often go to the country to study the wild flowers and the birds.
One summer evening he sat in the backyard among the flowers. He was hot and lonesome, the thermometer being close to ninety, the family being out of town, and no vacation for himself in sight. Tomorrow, he reflected, he would return to his post of teller in the bank, and hand out more money than he would ever own in a lifetime; the day after he would do the same thing——
His melancholy reflections were broken in upon by what seemed to be a ball of fire on top of the tall board fence. In an instant it disappeared, and he saw the long black form of a cat slide down the fence, and light in the yard. The beast went to a garbage can in the corner of the yard, sniffed about it, observed that the lid was on, and
then, turning the gleaming ball upon Raymond, sprang up the fence and disappeared.
The same thing happened the next evening. On the third evening when the cat appeared Raymond advanced cautiously, and tried to be friendly The cat hesitated, but when the man’s hand was almost on him he streaked up, and over the fence.
The following evening when Raymond walked uptown from the bank, as he approached Richmond market he thought of the cat, and stopping at a stall bought a small portion of meat.
The meat was put on the ground near the fence on which at the regular time the cat appeared. The eye gleamed. Raymond was wondering why both eyes did not gleam when the cat seemed to fall straight down upon the meat. Raymond sat as still as a stone, and heard the meat crunching between the cat’s jaws. The animal was licking its chops when he advanced—it met him halfway, and while Raymond rubbed his fur, the cat purred. Sitting down upon a bench, the cat leaped into his lap, curled up, and settled down for a nap. Then it was that he found about the cat’s neck a small chain with a tag on it.
When he went into the house the cat followed him, and by the gas light he read on the tag a Madison Avenue address. Also he observed that the cat had but one eye, and forthwith he christened him Cyclops. He wondered why a person who thought enough of the cat to provide him with a chain and tag should have left him to search for his victuals in alleys and backyards like an ordinary stray.
Cyclops stuck by Raymond like a twin brother And every evening when Raymond came from business he stopped in Richmond market and bought meat for Cyclops. One day the man in the stall asked him if he were a family man.
One Sunday morning Raymond strolled across Eutaw Place and up to the Madison Avenue address. The house was closed for the summer, but the policeman on the post told him who lived there.
Summer was nearly at an end when Raymond happened to see in the paper that the people at the Madison Avenue house had returned to town. Now, Raymond was an honest man—had he been anything else he would not have been allowed to handle the bank’s
money, so on Saturday evening with Cyclops under his arm, he sadly went up Madison Avenue to return the cat to his lawful owner. Boys on the street made personal remarks about the man and the cat, and Cyclops’ great eye turned green with wrath as he glared at them.
A coloured woman of the Mammy type answered his ring. She looked and gasped. Before Raymond could explain she thrust her head into the hall and shouted in strident tones:
“Come heah, Miss ’Liza! Bress de Lawd ef heah ain’t yo’ cat!”
In a moment appeared the prettiest girl that Raymond’s eyes had ever rested upon. She had blue eyes and a mass of golden hair. Though comparatively young, and quite in the eligible class, Raymond was not a lady’s man. With much embarrassment he told the history of the cat.
While she held Cyclops to her bosom, the girl explained that she had left him with a friend to keep for her during the summer, and he had run away. She had given him up for lost.
“Dat cat know whut he doin’,” snickered the Mammy, who was standing back in the hall. “Dat cat kin see further’n you kin ef he ain’t got but one eye.”
Raymond went off catless. All the way home he was thinking of a way by which he might call on the beautiful Miss ’Liza. Sunday afternoon he went out to the country, to the woods, the flowers, the birds, and his soul was full of poetry and his mind of thoughts of the girl.
That evening old Cyclops was back on the fence! His great eye had a gleam of mischievousness. Down the fence he slid, and straight to Raymond, who decided that he must take the cat back to his owner immediately.
While Cyclops prowled about the parlour with tail erect, rubbing against every article of furniture, Raymond talked to Miss ’Liza.
Every evening Cyclops returned to Raymond, and every evening he as promptly took him home. Thus time passed from autumn into early winter.
One evening sitting before the little wood fire in her parlour, Raymond said to Miss ’Liza: “I don’t see but one way to keep our cat
in one place!”
Then Miss ’Liza blushed, and said she didn’t see but one way either!
Then he kissed her!
And old Cyclops rubbed against both of them and purred to beat the band.
“SOLITAIRE” BILL
By Arthur Felix McEachern
Captain Billy MacDonald was one of those dour Highland Scotsmen; deep-water men; exhaling an unmistakable atmosphere of the sea. Past middle age, taciturn; yet there was that indescribable glimmer in his gray eyes betraying a sense of humor. If indications pointed to a “spell of weather,” Captain Billy habitually retired to his cabin, leaving orders with the mate to “call me if it breezes up,” and when the first puff of a squall bellied the sails of the Lizzie MacDonald—named after his daughter, and second only to her in his affections—heeling the bark in to her lee scuppers, Captain Billy would hastily leave his game of solitaire and bound on deck. One glance at the heavens sufficed for his decision. With him decision and action were synonymous; and when he bellowed the order, “All hands shorten sail,” every man-Jack jumped to the ratlines, for “Solitaire” Bill, as the captain was known to seafaring men from Glasgow to the Horn, was an Absolute Monarch when at sea.
For twenty years the bark Lizzie MacDonald had freighted hither and yon about the Atlantic, and was one of the few of her type which had managed to stay in the running against modern steam tramp competition. She lay in the roads at Kingston, Jamaica, having discharged a cargo of dry fish from Boston, and was all ready to clear for Liverpool with sugar and molasses. War conditions had boosted freight rates, and the Lizzie had been paying her owners as never before.
It was 102 degrees in the shade, and at ten o’clock in the forenoon “Solitaire Bill” sat in his cabin at a rickety table apparently oblivious to everything except the inevitable solitaire. It was not generally known that the captain could more clearly map out a
course or think of foreign subjects to better advantage when thus engaged than at any other time, and when the Yankee mate came aboard in a bum-boat, he coughed apologetically before disturbing the skipper.
“Well,” said Captain Billy, looking up in the act of placing the ten of diamonds on the queen of spades, “what’s the good word?”
“Nothing stirring,” answered the mate, an angular, weather-beaten man with the unmistakable nasal twang of the New-Englander. “The cook’s the only one of the outfit of them with the spunk of a rabbit. It was as I anticipated. The crew were afraid of the German submarines, and they jumped north on the steam tramp that left for New York this morning.”
“So there’s no chance to get a crew,” ruminated the captain. “It is too bad that we are to be delayed at this time when freight rates are so high, but I suppose it cannot be helped. We can’t sail without men, that’s sure.”
“There ain’t a sailorman without a ship in Kingston,” averred the mate. “If we were steam we could ship a dozen or so of these niggers, but they won’t do on a square-rigger. They wouldn’t know the main’t’gall’n’s’l halyards from the bobstay,” and the mate went on deck leaving “Solitaire” Bill pursuing the pastime which was his hobby
That afternoon when a slight breeze swept through the city from the mountain behind, “Solitaire” Bill had the cook put him ashore. He intended cabling his agents that he would be indefinitely delayed owing to lack of a crew Mechanically he walked through the sunblistered streets past the squat white houses with negroes lolling in the doorways, to the Custom House, where he found a cablegram awaiting him.
As he perused the typewritten sheet a smile flitted over his careworn features. It was as he had hoped, although he had made it a point to never meddle in his daughter’s affairs. He had scrimped to give her the education which neither he nor her dead mother had enjoyed, and though he had seen her never more than twice yearly, he had known of her reciprocation to the love of Douglas MacGillis, and had approved of her choice. He reread the cablegram: “Douglas
and I to be married March 30th. He leaves for the front early April. Expect you Liverpool before 30th.”
Since the death of his wife, fifteen years before, his daughter, Lizzie, had been the constant object of “Solitaire” Bill’s care and affection. She was to marry a Scotsman; a gentleman; and one who was going to the firing line to “do his bit” for King and country. Many a time since the outbreak of war had Captain Billy wished that he were younger. Gladly would he have donned the khaki to fight for Britain in the trenches. His was the indomitable spirit of the Highlander. But, though vigorous and keen of mind as are the majority of men of half his years, he was beyond the active service age limit, so he devoted himself to the equally patriotic task of bringing supplies to Britain to keep her wheels of commerce humming.
“If I had a crew,” he muttered, as he shuffled the dog-eared deck of cards in the solitude of his cabin while awaiting the evening meal, “I could make Liverpool, weather permitting, in time for the wedding. If I could do that—well, that’s all I ask——”
Suddenly Captain “Solitaire” Bill burst into a paroxysm of laughter. “By the Powers, I’ll try it,” he cried, as he bounded up the companionway with boyish light-heartedness.
“Supper’s ready,” called the cook from the door of the galley
“Get supper ready for a full crew,” ordered the skipper, “and will you come ashore with me, Mr. Smith?” he said to the mate. “I want you to round up a crew of those niggers, while I go to the Custom House and clear. We sail as soon as you get them.”
The mate looked incredulously. “The niggers can’t box the compass even, and——”
“Never mind about that,” commanded “Solitaire” Bill, “you get them aboard and leave the rest to me.”
“Well, I might as well explain now; it’s too good to keep a moment longer,” chuckled “Solitaire” Bill, as he ordered the driver of the taxi waiting in front of the church to drive to the Liverpool House.
“We are assuredly anxious to learn what you and Mr. Smith are laughing about,” chorused Lieut. Douglas MacGillis and his wife in
unison. The mate, Mr Smith, was obviously uncomfortable in what he termed his “moonlight clothes,” nevertheless he laughed immoderately as he indulged in retrospection.
“I’ve always been a fiend for solitaire,” said Captain Billy, “and after getting your cable I was in a quandary, and sought solace in a game with myself. I wanted to get to this wedding more than anything else, but I couldn’t get here without a crew to work the ship, and sailormen were about as plentiful as hen’s teeth in Kingston. But the cards gave me an inspiration. I shipped a crew of niggers who did not know one rope from another on a square-rigged ship—but they all knew how to play cards. I fastened a playing card to each of the principal ropes and sails, and those niggers were like cats aloft.
“When I shouted, ‘Clew up your ace of spades,’ they were after that mizzen-royal in a jiffy. Mr. Smith, the cook, and myself took turns at the wheel. ‘Double reef your deuce of diamonds,’ and they made snug the fores’l to a nicety. All’s well that ends well. I never had a smarter lot of sailors. I know the men all called me ‘Solitaire’ Bill behind my back, but henceforth and hereafter, every fo’c’sle hand and the cook calls me ‘Solitaire,’ or they don’t sign articles on the trimmest brig that sails the Atlantic.”
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