At any rate, at half past eleven o'clock that night
he was up and dressed, and routed his two sons out of their beds. At
the stroke of midnight, waiting a tick longer perhaps, to be quite
sure that Sunday had gone and Monday morning had arrived, he and his
sons pushed out in their big boat.
Skipper Tom would not be doing his best if he did not make certain of
what had actually happened to the cod trap. Every one in Red Bay said
it had been destroyed, and no doubt of that. But no one knew for a
certainty, and there _might_ have been an intervention of Divine
Providence.
"The Lard helped us to get that trap," said Skipper Tom, "and 'tis
hard to believe he'll take un away from us so soon, for I tried not to
be vain about un, only just a bit proud of un and glad I has un. If
He's took un from me I'll know 'twere to try my faith, and I'll never
complain."
Down they rowed toward the iceberg, whose polished surface gleamed
white in the starlight.
"She's right over where the trap were set! The trap's gone," said one
of the sons.
"I'm doubtin'," Skipper Tom was measuring the distance critically with
his eye.
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