



Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
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[Illustration: "I ain't blamin' her, nor never will"]




                       CALEB WEST, MASTER DIVER

                        BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH



                        WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

                 MALCOLM FRASER AND ARTHUR I. KELLER



                         BOSTON AND NEW YORK
                    HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

                    The Riverside Press, Cambridge
                                 1898




        COPYRIGHT, 1897 AND 1898, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO.
                COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH
                         ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




CONTENTS

        I. The Cape Ann Sloop
       II. A Morning's Mail
      III. Captain Brandt at the Throttle
       IV. Among the Blackfish and Tomcods
        V. Aunty Bell's Kitchen
       VI. A Little Dinner for Five
      VII. Betty's First Patient
     VIII. The "Heave Ho" of Lonny Bowles
       IX. What the Butcher Saw
        X. Strains from Bock's 'Cello
       XI. Captain Joe's Telegram
      XII. Captain Joe's Creed
     XIII. A Shanty Door
      XIV. Two Envelopes
       XV. A Narrow Path
      XVI. Under the Willows
     XVII. The Song of the Fire
    XVIII. The Equinoctial Gale
      XIX. From the Lantern Deck
       XX. At the Pines
      XXI. The Record of Nickles, the Cook
     XXII. After the Battle
    XXIII. A Broken Draw
     XXIV. The Swinging Gate
      XXV. Under the Pitiless Stars
     XXVI. Caleb Trims His Lights




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

    "I ain't blamin' her, nor never will"
    "Swung back the gate with the gesture of a rollicking boy"
    "Helen... in white muslin--not a jewel"
    "No, it's my Betty"
    "What's she but a chit of a child that don't know no better"
    "Sanford... raised her hand to his lips"
    "Thank God, Tony! Thank God!"
    "Victory is ours!"
    "The diver knelt in a passive, listless way"
    "Ain't nothin' to skeer ye, child"




                     CALEB WEST, MASTER DIVER




CHAPTER I

THE CAPE ANN SLOOP


The rising sun burned its way through a low-lying mist that hid the
river, and flashed its search-light rays over the sleeping city. The
blackened tops of the tall stacks caught the signal, and answered in
belching clouds of gray steam that turned to gold as they floated
upwards in the morning air. The long rows of the many-eyed tenements
cresting the hill blinked in the dazzling light, threw wide their
shutters, and waved curling smoke flags from countless chimneys.

Narrow, silent alleys awoke. Doors opened and shut. Single figures
swinging dinner-pails, and groups of girls with baskets, hurried to
and fro. The rumbling of carts was heard and shrill street cries.

Suddenly the molten ball swung clear of the purple haze and flooded
the city with tremulous light. The vanes of the steeples flashed and
blazed. The slanting roofs, wet with the night dew, glistened like
silver. The budding trees, filling the great squares, flamed pink and
yellow, their tender branches quivering in the rosy light.

Now long, deep-toned whistles--reveille of forge, spindle, and
press--startled the air. Surging crowds filled the thoroughfares;
panting horses tugged at the surface cars; cabs rattled over the
cobblestones, and loaded trucks began to block the crossings.

The great city was astir.

At the sun's first gleam, Henry Sanford had waked with joyous start.
Young, alert, full of health and courage as he was, the touch of its
rays never came too early for him. To-day they had been like the hand
of a friend, rousing him with promises of