the tide was at ebb. the noisily rushing spume-spotted waters of the sea were pounding the hard-sand shore of the easterly side of a beautiful island, nestling as a jewel in its setting just within the capes, which form the shores on either side of beaufort inlet, but so exposed that when the winds blow from the sea the full force of the breakers is felt at this point. as this small bit of land is low-lying, more than once when a southeaster has raged, the tiny isle has become entirely submerged.

man has placed but one habitation upon this toy of the great waters, and that a fisherman's shack, surrounded with the usual net-drying racks and other crude tools of the fisherfolk. one would rightly guess that the occupant of an abode built upon such a tiny bit of old mother earth must be a hardy customer, who understood the ways of the winds and sea and who dared combat them.

it is sunrise. the door of the hut swings on its heavy hinges. a sturdy-looking old fellow with grizzled beard and flowing locks steps out of the shack, and, as has been his wont for years, he scans the horizon for a sail or perchance for other more modern craft of the sea.

in his arms, he is tenderly carrying a large dominick rooster, which, judging from his length of spurs, and scaly legs, has lingered many summers. satisfying himself that there is no boat in sight, to break the monotony of the view, captain ichabod places his only living companion—as he expresses it, his poultry alarm clock—upon the ground, and from a pocket produces a handful of corn, which the old cock greedily devours.

these two have been companions for a long time. captain ichabod found him one morning perched upon the top of a floating crate, washed from the deck of a schooner that had gone upon the beach in a booming southeaster. the captain had proved a life-saver indeed to the proud old bird. ichabod, when he first spied shrimp, as he afterward named this bit of flotsam, was wildly anxious to save the creature so it might have a life on shore suited to its nature and desires. then it flashed upon him that his antiquated and well-worn alarm clock had ceased to work. it occurred to him that the rooster's crowing would suffice to advise him of the hour, and that there would be no need to buy another clock.

the captain was a woman-hater. this fact accounted for his choosing to live as a hermit on the bit of sand, which he had grown to love. but that loneliness was a trial to shrimp, who naturally desired a harem of his own. many times, when the wind was from the mainland, captain ichabod had heard the far-away crow of a barnyard fowl, and had gravely and criticizingly listened as shrimp returned the salute in lusty manner. he had seen the bird swell in rage, and his comb turn red in jealous envy of the other rooster on the mainland.

captain ichabod had now come to busying himself with fishing by hook and line for blue fish and sheepshead. in addition he set a line of gill nets in the cove for mullet or any other fish that might become entangled within their meshes. on all his excursions shrimp accompanied his master. he would perch himself proudly upon the center-board box. more than once, before becoming a seasoned sailor, he had failed to dodge the boom to which the little leg o' mutton sail was attached, and had been knocked from his perch when uncle ichabod for a joke let the boat jibe in a flaw of the wind. but shrimp learned. he learned to dodge the boom. he became, under stress of circumstances, an expert sailor—and was never seasick.

when shrimp had finished his meal, ichabod addressed the mangy-looking bird very gravely:

"shrimp, thar hain't nary sail nor steamer smoke in sight off the capes and i 'low thar has a dozen skippers seen that-thar same mare's tail as did i last night, and has had the good common sense to haul to in the hook o' the cape ter ride out the blow that is sure ter come. may the sarpants o' davy jones' have mercy on him or her as don't take kivver; me an' you, rooster, 'll have ter do our hook an' linin' in the spar channel on this ebb fer so soon as she hauls a leetle more to the south'ard thar is goin' ter be hell kicked up in the inlet an' me and yo', ole feathers an' comb, had better do our anglin' clost enough that we can shoot inter this home harbor without loosin' o' our rag."

captain ichabod busied himself with getting his leads and lines in shape. he cut up a half-dozen mullets for bait. then he picked up the mast, around which was wrapped a patchwork of canvas, very snugly. it felt at home there for it had been thus rolled around the mast time and again through many years. captain ichabod now walked to the red skiff. at his heels shrimp stalked with great dignity. the captain stepped the mast, arranged the halyards, and pushed off. the sail caught the wind and captain ichabod at the tiller was off for the spar channel fishing grounds.

when he had arrived and thrown his anchor overboard, the captain addressed shrimp with much solemnity.

"shrimp, ye air a heap o' company to the ole man, but ye wa'n't built by god a'mighty fer a sailin' mate, all he fixed ye fer was to peck an' scratch an' fight—oh, yes, an' i like ter forgot the crow."

then nonchalantly he remarked:

"an' thar would be a heap more peace in the world to-day if he had o' built all kinds o' hens without thar tarnation cackle."

when captain icky mentioned the word cackle he thought he could detect a dejected look upon the countenance of his feathered friend, and in a sympathetic voice to ease the rooster's feelings, said:

"wall, rooster, i must say that yo'r women folks was made with the only kind of cackle that has done men folks any good, but gosh darned if it hain't a right-smart bit since i's et an aig!"

then, having thus relieved himself, ichabod tossed his heavily sinkered lines into the swift tide. the fish were hungry, and he was kept busy hauling them in.

the swell began to increase. the small craft began to rock uncomfortably. the sun was hidden by a red cloud that banked in the eastern sky. captain ichabod knew the signs. he pulled in his line and hooks, made sail, and beat across to the point where nestled the life-saving station. there he would read the barometer, have a chat and a meal with the men, and afterward make a quick run home before the wind.

at the life-saving station, he found the barometer indicated storm, as he had feared.

after a hearty dinner, and a pipe with yarns, captain ichabod set sail for the island, and made it safely, in spite of the rising storm.

the captain realized that a gale was brewing. he gathered up his nets from their racks. he made them snug in the shack, and stowed away everything movable. he was weather-wise. he would not be caught unawares. a high tide had more than once taught him the lesson of that beach. he had the red skiff hauled well up out of harm's way. there was, too, an extra anchor tied to the painter. captain ichabod and the rooster entered their cottage, for refuge from the wind that was now blowing dangerously.

the storm reached such proportions that from his window to seaward it was no longer possible to make out through the rain and spray the broad crêpe-like bands of black and white painted upon the great, towering lighthouse, at the extreme point of cape lookout, a few miles to the eastward. the shack was fairly shaking in the west india hurricane—for such it proved to be.... and great was the devastation wrought that night by both wind and wave.

about midnight, captain ichabod, feeling that it was not quite safe to retire, stood in the open doorway. he little minded the pelting of the rain as it drove against his weathered cheek. he had donned his oilskins, hat and slicker, and was peering intently seaward. he had been to his skiff and had dragged it a couple of rods further up on the sand as a measure of safety. a yellow flash showed dimly on the black storm clouds that banked the horizon to the north of the cape—wherein nestled a tiny harbor of refuge. those who knew took advantage of this retreat in times of tempest.... woe unto the hapless seafarer, unknowing the way.

it did not take a second flash for the practised eye of the lone man in oilskins to recognize that this was the thing he had expected—even while praying god that it might not be. it was the rocket signal of a boat in distress. within sound of the breakers, that could not be seen in the pitch black, was somewhere a mass of timber and iron, burdened with cargo and human freight. and that mass, which was a ship, dragged its anchor, as if that anchor were a toy—foot by foot to sure destruction on a beach that has known a hundred wrecks.

the rockets continued to flare. closer and closer to the outer shoals of the beach they beamed. the ship was swiftly and surely going to its doom.

turning his face to the clouded heavens, and raising his voice in a final appeal, uncle ichabod prayed:

"god help the boys in such a surf."

at the point where the ship was making the distress signals, the coast offered only a narrow strip of sand, running from the cape to ocracoke inlet—many miles to the northeast.

the old fisherman's face was ashen. there was nothing that he could do except stand and helplessly watch the final disaster. he realized that the craft was doomed. he was powerless to interfere, although in despair over this catastrophe before his very eyes. he turned away, and entered his little house, and tried to sleep. but he was wakeful, and found himself murmuring prayers for those who went down to the sea in ships.