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150
Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
143
Meantime
the
fury
of
the
storm
increased.
The
skipper
had
the
hatches
battered
down.
Presently
Longfellow
put
his
head
out
of
a
porthole
and
called
out,
"Look
here,
you
may
not
care,
but
the
cruel
rocks
are
goring
the
sides
of
this
boat
like
the
horns
of
an
angry
bull."
The
brutal
skipper
heaved
the
log
at
him.
A
knot
in
it
struck
a
plank
and
it
glanced
off.
Too
frightened
to
remain
below,
the
poet
raised
one
of
the
hatches
by
picking
out
the
cotton
batting
and
made
his
way
on
deck.
He
crawled
to
the
wheel-house.
The
skipper
stood
lashed
to
the
helm
all
stiff
and
stark.
He
bowed
stiffly
to
the
poet.
The
lantern
gleamed
through
the
gleaming
snow
on
his
fixed
and
glassy
eyes.
The
man
was
hopelessly
intoxicated.
All
the
crew
had
disappeared.
When
the
missile
thrown
by
the
captain
had
glanced
off
into
the
sea,
they
glanced
after
it
and
were
lost.
At
this
moment
the
final
crash
came.
Something
hit
something.
There
was
an
awful
click
followed
by
a
peculiar
grating
sound,
and
in
less
time
than
it
takes
to
write
it
(unfortunately),
the
whole
wreck
was
over.
As
the
vessel
sank,
Longfellow's
senses
left
him.
When
he
reopened
his
eyes
he
was
in
his
own
bed
at
home,
and
the
editor
of
his
local
paper
was
bending
over
him.
"You
have
made
a
first-rate
poem
of
it,
Mr.
Longfellow,"
he
was
saying,
unbending
somewhat
as
he
spoke,
"and
I
am
very
happy
to
give
you
our
cheque
for
a
dollar
and
a
quarter
for
it."
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