One rope faulty, one light
wrong, one hand out of his place at the critical time, and the bones of
a pleasant ship's company would have been strewn on a bleak shore: but
everything was right, and the tiny craft drew away like a seagull when
she was made to sail. Of course the sea ran clean over her, but she
forged quietly on until she was thirty miles clear of those foaming
breakers that roared on the cliffs. During that night more good seamen
were drowned than one would like to number; ships worth a king's ransom
were utterly lost. And why? Simply because they had not the perfect gear
which saved the little schooner. Even had the little craft been sent
over until she refused to rise again to the sea, the boats were ready,
and everybody on board had a good chance. Care first of all is needed,
and then fear may be banished. The smart agent reads his report glibly
to the directors of a steamboat company--and yet I have seen such smart
agents superintending the departure of vessels whereof the appearance
was enough to make a good judge quake for the safety of crew and cargo.
What do I advise? Well, in the first place, I must remind shoregoing
folk that a sound well-found vessel will live through anything.
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