Doctor Syn on the High Seas

Mervyn Ransom, master and owner of the brig City of London, trading

between New England and the Port of London, had a great liking for his

passenger, Doctor Syn. He respected this quiet scholar who had given up

so many years, in the service of Christianity amongst the Indian tribes.

The voyage was uneventful till they reached at last, the Cha

they ran into the greatest storm the south coast had seen for many a

year, and as they drove along towards the Kent coast, the captain of the

ship began to give up hope. This parson was first aloft to trim sails,

and had it not been for some unca

back to him across the years, they would have run foul of Dungeness. And

then the fire broke out in the hold. The heat was unbearable, the waves

terrific. The ship was being driven on to Dymchurch Wall.

“‘Tis a short cut to my destination,” cried the parson. “There’s

nothing left but to jump for it.”

With a long cord lashed to his precious seachest and tied to his

wrist, Syn toppled his worldly belongings over the ship’s side, just as

the brig was heading for destruction. The chest landed on the sand

beneath the driving waves, and then Syn and the captain jumped after the

crew, and as they battled with the monster waves, the wind and waters

sang in Syn’s ear:

“Here’s to the feet what have walked the plank,

Yo-ho, for the dead man’s trottle,

And here’s to the corpses afloat in the tank,

And the dead man’s teeth in the bottle.”

THE END