"Lord, Bud! What?"

"A hell of a fine bunch we are."

"Fine how?"

"To be spending our Christmas here."

"Why, where else would we be?"

"Where but home?"

Baldwin smiled broadly. "Say, Bud, I don't see you logging any
record-breaking runs for home.

"Blast it!--I've got no home."

"Well, who has?"

"But--" Harty took the spare pack which he had been riffling and slammed
it down on the table--"there's men who've got homes--good homes--who're
going to their death to sea to-night."

"What's the matter, Bud? Sit down. Sure there are. They're there every
night, goin' to their death somewhere out to sea, but how c'n we help
it?"

"We _can_ help it." Harty stood up "Fine men we are, all of us."

Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-tump-ti--