M ervyn 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 the reached at last the Channel. There 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. It was then that he loved Doctor Syn. This parson was first up aloft to trim sails, and had it not been for some uncanny knowledge of the coast which came 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 sea-chest 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 throttle, And here's to the corpses afloat in the tank And the dead man's teeth in the bottle.”
