the life of a ship from the launch to the wreck, by r.m. ballantyne. ________________________________________________________________________ a story for pre-teens, in which a small boy, davy, is taken to a shipyard to watch the building of a new sailing-vessel, the "fair nancy". eventually davy is allowed to sail on board of her as a boy-seaman. he is sea-sick at first, but soon recovers and learns how to climb the rigging to help with the sails. they encounter a hurricane, which knocks the ship over, and they lose the ship's boats. a raft is made, but only a few people can get away on it, including the captain's wife. the ship drifts helpless until she is wrecked on a hostile shore. there is only one chance for the men, and that would be if someone could swim ashore with a rope and fasten it, so that each member of the crew can be brought ashore with a travelling block and harness. this works, and no lives are lost. they walk out of the wilderness till they come to a village, from which they make their way to quebec, and thence back to england. i find it rather a depressing story, but the intention of the book, presumably, is to interest young people in a life at sea. ________________________________________________________________________ the life of a ship from the launch to the wreck, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. the life of a ship from the launch to the wreck. song of the sailor boy. oh! i love the great blue ocean, i love the whistling breeze, when the gallant ship sweeps lightly across the surging seas. i watched my first ship building; i saw her timbers rise, until her masts were towering up in the bright blue skies. i heard the cheers ascending, i saw her kiss the foam, when first her hull went plunging into her ocean home. her flags were gaily streaming, and her sails were full and round, when the shout from shore came ringing, "hurrah! for the outward-bound!" but, alas! ere long a tempest came down with awful roar and dashed our ship in pieces upon a foreign shore. but he who holds the waters in his almighty hand, brought all the sailors safely back to their native land. davy was a fisher boy; and davy was a very active little boy; and davy wanted to go to sea. his father was a fisherman, his grandfather had been a fisherman, and his great-grandfather had been a fisherman: so we need not wonder much that little davy took to the salt water like a fish. when he was very little he used to wade in it, and catch crabs in it, and gather shells on the shore, or build castles on the sands. sometimes, too, he fell into the water neck and heels, and ran home to his mother, who used to whip him and set him to dry before the fire; but, as he grew older, he went with his father in the boat to fish, and from that time forward he began to wish to go to sea in one of the large ships that were constantly sailing away from the harbour near his father's cottage. one day davy sat on a rock beside the sea, leaning on his father's boathook, and gazing with longing eyes out upon the clear calm ocean, on which several ships and boats were floating idly, for there was not a breath of wind to fill their sails. "oh, how i wish my father would let me go to sea!" said davy, with a deep sigh. "i wonder if i shall ever sail away beyond that line yonder, far, far away, where the sky seems to sink into the sea!" the line that he spoke of was the horizon. davy heaved another sigh, and smiled; for, just at that moment, his eyes fell on a small crab that stood before him with its claws up as if it were listening to what he said. "oh, crab, crab," cried the little boy, "you're a happy beast!" at that moment he moved the boathook, and the crab ran away in such a desperate hurry that davy opened his eyes wide and said, "humph! maybe ye're not a happy beast after all!" while he sat thus, a stout fisherman came up and asked him what he was thinking about. on being told, he said, "will you come with me, boy, to the building-yard, and i'll show you a ship on the `stocks.' i'm goin' as one of her crew when she's ready for sea, and perhaps by that time your father will let you go too." you may be sure that davy did not refuse such a good offer; so the man and the boy went hand in hand to the yard where ships were built. davy had never been there before, and great was his surprise when he saw a huge thing standing on dry land, with great pieces of wood of all shapes sticking round it, like the skeleton of a whale; but greater still was his surprise when the fisherman said, "there, lad, that's the ship." "well," exclaimed davy, opening his large eyes to their widest, "it don't look like one just now!" the fisherman laughed. "that's true, lad; but come--i'll explain;" and taking davy by the hand, he led him nearer to the "skeleton" of the ship, and began to explain the names and uses of the different parts. "you see that long thick timber," he said, "that runs from this end, which is the `stern,' to that end, which is the `bow'--well, that is the `keel.' this post or beam that rises out of it here is the `stern-post,' and that one that rises up at the far end yonder is the `stem' or `cutwater.' these are the principal timbers of the vessel, and upon their strength the safety of a ship chiefly depends. the sticks that you see branching out from the keel like deers' horns are called `ribs;' they are very strong, and the timbers that fasten them together at the top are called `beams.' of course these pieces of wood are some of them far larger than any trees that you have ever seen; but if you examine them you will find that each timber and rib is made up of two or three separate pieces of wood, fastened very strongly together. when all the beams are fixed they will begin to nail the planks on to the ribs; iron bolts are used for this purpose, but by far the greater number of the nails are made of wood. after this is done the seams between the planks will be filled with oakum and the whole ship covered over with pitch and tar, just in the same way as your father does to his boat when she lets in water. then the bottom of the ship will be entirely covered with sheets of copper, to prevent the wood worms from destroying it. these little rascals would eat through a ship's bottom and very soon sink it, but for the copper. next, the deck is laid down, and the ship will be ready for `launching.' a ship's masts and rigging are always put in after she is launched. now, lad, what d'ye think of it?" said the fisherman as he walked home again with davy. "the ship's to be a `three-master' full-rigged, and is to go by the name o' the _fair nancy_." as he said this he smiled, patted the little boy on the head and left him. but davy replied not a word to his friend's remarks. his curly head was stuffed quite full with the keel, timbers, ribs, beams, stern-post, planks, and cutwater of the _fair nancy_; he could not speak, he found it difficult even to think, so he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, sat down on the shank of an anchor, and stared out to sea. in half an hour he heaved a very deep sigh indeed, and said, "oh! dear me, i wonder if i shall ever go to sea in the _fair nancy_!" time flew on, and little davy fished with his father, and worked for his mother, and paid many a visit to the building-yard, to watch the progress of the ship--his ship, as he called it. he begged very hard, too, to be allowed to go in her when she should be ready for sea. at first neither father nor mother would hear of it, but at last they began to think that davy would make a very good sailor, for certainly he was an active obedient boy; so, although they did not say yes, they were not nearly so determined as they used to be in saying no. the day of the launch was a great day at the seaport where davy lived. the launch of a large ship is always a very interesting and wonderful sight indeed; so that thousands and thousands of people flock from all directions to see it. whichever way davy looked he saw crowds of people, some on foot, some on horses, some on donkeys, and some in carriages, all streaming towards the one great point--the ship-builder's yard. it seemed quite like a holiday or a fair, and was such a bright, warm, sunny day that people's hearts felt far lighter than usual. davy saw all this at a glance the moment he left home; and, throwing his red nightcap into the air, he gave one long loud hurrah! and ran away as fast as his heavy fishing-boots would let him. the ship was very different now from what it had been when he first saw it. there were four little masts put up in it, on which were hoisted gay and gaudy flags. her "hull," or body, was now coppered and neatly painted, while all the rubbish of the building-yard was cleared away, so that everything looked neat and clean. the stocks, or framework on which she had been built, sloped towards the water, so that when the props were knocked away from the ship, she would slide by her own weight into the sea. ships are always built on sloping stocks near to the water's edge; for you can fancy how difficult it would be to drag such a great thing into the water by main force. in order to make her slip more easily, the "ways," down which she slides, are covered with grease. very soon the crowds of people stood in silence, expecting the great event of the day; and, as the moment drew nigh, the band, which had been playing all morning, suddenly stopped. davy became very anxious, because he was so little that he could not see in the crowd; but, observing a post near at hand, he struggled towards it and climbed to the top of it. here he saw famously. the workmen had begun to knock away the props; there was just one remaining. at this moment a lady stepped forward with a bottle of wine in her hand to christen the ship. this she did by breaking the bottle against the cutwater; just at that instant she began to move. another second and the _fair nancy_ rushed down the incline, plunged heavily into the water like some awful sea-monster, and floated out upon her ocean home amid the deafening cheers of the people, especially of little davy, who sat on the top of the post waving his red cap and shouting with delight. after the launch davy and all the people returned home, and the _fair nancy_ was towed to the "shear-hulk" to have her masts put in. the shear-hulk is a large ship in which is placed machinery for lifting masts into other ships. every one who has looked at the thick masts of a large vessel, must see at a glance that they could never be put there by any number of men. machinery is used to do it, and the shear-hulk contains that machinery; so that when a ship has to get her masts put up she is dragged alongside of this vessel. in the meantime davy renewed his prayer to his father to let him go to sea, and at last the old man consented. his mother cried a good deal at first, and hoped that davy would not think of it; but his father said that it would do him good, and if he became tired of it after the first voyage he could give it up. davy was overjoyed at this, and went immediately to his friend the fisherman, ben block, who was very much delighted too, and took him to a shop to buy clothes and a sea-chest for the voyage. "you see, lad," said ben, "the ship is bound for quebec with a mixed cargo, and is to come back loaded with timber; and as the season is coming on, you'll need to get ready quick." "that i shall," replied davy, as they entered a shop. "ho! shopman, give me a straw hat, and a blue jacket, and a pair o' duck trousers, and--" "stop! stop!" cried ben, "you're sailing too fast. take in a reef, my lad." ben meant by this that he was to proceed a little slower. "you'll want a `sou'-wester,'" (an oilskin hat), "and a `dread-nought,'" (a thick, heavy coat), "and things o' that sort." after davy had bought all he wanted, and ordered a sea-chest, he went home to his mother, who was very sad at the thought of parting with him. when the day of departure came she gave him a great deal of good advice, which davy promised, with tears in his eyes, to remember. then she gave him a little bible and a kiss, and sent him away. his father took him to the beach, where the ship's boat was waiting for him; and, as the old man took off his cap, and raising his eyes to heaven, prayed for a blessing on his little son, davy, with watery eyes, looked around at the big ships floating on the water, and, for the first time, wished that he was not going to sea. in a few minutes he was on board the "outward-bound" ship. this is what we say of ships when they are going out to sea; when they return from a voyage we say that they are "homeward-bound." the _fair nancy_ was a noble ship, and as she hoisted her snow-white sails to a strong wind, (a stiff breeze, as ben block called it), she looked like a white cloud. the cloud seemed to grow smaller and smaller as davy's father and mother watched it from the shore; then it became like a little white spot on the faraway sea; then it passed over the line where the water meets the sky, and they saw it no more! after davy had cried a great deal, and wished very often that he had not been so determined to leave home, he dried his eyes and began to take great interest in the curious things he saw around him. what surprised him most of all was, that although he actually was at sea, he could not see the sea at all! this was because the sides of the ship, which are called "bulwarks," were so high that they quite prevented the little boy from seeing overboard. davy soon found an opening in the bulwarks, however, which his friend ben called the "gang-way," through which he could see the water and the ships and boats that were sailing there. and when he mounted the high part of the deck in front of the ship, which is called the "forecastle," or when he went upon the high deck at the stern of the ship, which is called the "poop," then he could see all round. and what a wonderful and new sight it was to davy! his cottage was gone! the beach, and the pier where the nets used to hang, were gone. the trees and fields were all gone, and there was nothing but sea, sea, sea, all round, so that the _fair nancy_ seemed the only solid thing in the whole wide world! but poor davy did not look or wonder long at this, for the breeze freshened, and the waves rose, and the ship plunged, and davy felt very queer about the stomach! there is a man in every ship called the "steward," and everybody loves that man, because he goes about from morning till night trying to do people good and to make them happy. he looks after breakfasts, dinners, teas, and suppers. he answers every one who calls, and gets for everybody anything that they want. he is never ill, never in a hurry, never in a bad temper; in fact, he is a very charming man. now, when the steward saw davy with a pale face, and red eyes, and awfully seasick, he went up to him with a smile, and said, "sick, my lad? you'll soon get used to it. always sick when you first go to sea. come below and i'll give you summat to do you good, and tumble you into your hammock." by going below the good steward meant going below the deck into the cabin. a ship is just like a large house, divided into a number of rooms--some of which are sitting rooms, some store and provision rooms, some kitchens and pantries, closets and cupboards; and there are two or three flats in some ships, so that you can go up or down stairs at your pleasure. when davy went down the ladder or stair, which is called the "companion," and followed the steward through many rooms full of all kinds of things that seemed to be all in confusion, and saw the sailors sitting, and smoking, and laughing, and talking on chests and tables, he almost believed that he was in a house on shore; but then he remembered that houses on shore don't dance about and roll, first on one side and then on the other, and plunge forwards and then backwards; so he sighed and put his hands to his breast, which felt very uncomfortable. "here's your hammock," said the steward; "all the sailors sleep in these things, and this one is yours." so saying, he lifted davy from the ground and tossed him into bed. the "hammock" is a long piece of canvas drawn in round an iron ring at each end. to this ring a number of cords are attached, and the hammock is slung by them to the beams of the ship. in the bed thus formed the blankets are put; and a very snug bed it is, as it swings about with the ship. davy soon fell asleep, but he was quickly wakened again by the horrible noises on deck. ropes were thrown about, men's feet were stamping, pieces of wood were falling, doors were banging, masts were creaking, the wind was howling; in short, davy thought it must be a terrible storm and that they should all be lost. but the steward said to him, in passing, "it's only a stiff breeze, youngster;" so he turned round and went to sleep again. for two days and two nights did davy lie there--very sick! on the morning of the third day he awoke much refreshed, and felt strongly inclined to eat his blankets! as he lay wondering how he was to get down out of his hammock without breaking his neck, he heard his friend ben block conversing with a man in another hammock who had never been to sea before and was very, very sick. "oh! dear me," sighed the sick man, "where are we now?" "don't know," answered ben; "we've been drove pretty far out of our course to the nor'ard, i guess. it's a dead calm." "a dead what?" said the sick man faintly. "why, a dead calm," replied ben. "when there's no wind it's a calm, and when there's no motion at all, either in the air or in the water, except the swell o' the sea, it's a dead calm. d'ye understand?" "is it fine weather, ben?" cried davy cheerfully. "yes, lad, it is," replied the sailor. on hearing this davy sprang, or, as the sailors call it, tumbled out of bed. he tried to get out of it; but not being used to hammocks, he was awkward and fell plump on the floor! however, he was not hurt; and throwing on his jacket, he ran up on deck. well might davy's heart leap and his voice shout at the beautiful sight that met his gaze when he reached the forecastle. the sea was like one wide beautiful mirror, in which all the clouds were clearly reflected. the sun shone brightly and glittered on the swell on which the ship rolled slowly; and the only sound that could be heard was the gentle flapping of the loose sails, now and then, against the masts. "have you had breakfast, youngster?" inquired the captain of the ship, laying his hand on davy's head. "no, sir, not yet," answered the boy. "run below, then, and get it, and after you've done come to me. we must put you to work now, lad, and make a sailor of you." the steward soon gave davy as much food as he could eat; then he sprang up the companion ladder, and, running to the poop where the captain was, touched his cap, saying-"i'm ready, sir." "very good, my lad," said the captain, sitting down on the skylight, or window on the deck, which gives light to the cabin below. "do you see that little thing on top of the mainmast like a button?" "do you mean the truck?" said davy. "oh, you know its name, do you? well, do you think you could climb up to it?" "i'll try," cried davy, springing towards the mast. "stay!" shouted the captain; "not so fast, boy. you'd tumble down and break your neck if you tried to climb to the truck the first time you ever went up the mast. but you may go to the `maintop.' that's where you see the lower mast joined to the top mast. climb up by those rope ladders--the `shrouds,' we call them." away went davy, and was soon halfway up the shrouds; but he went too fast, and had to stop for breath. then he came to the mass of woodwork and ropes at the head of the lower mast. here he had great difficulty in getting on; but, being a fearless boy, he soon succeeded. the captain then called to him to go out to the end of the "yardarm." yards are the huge cross beams fastened to the masts to which the sails are fixed. the "main-yard" is the largest. the mainsail is attached to it. davy soon crept out nearly to the end, but when he got there the yard became so small and the ropes upon it were so few and slack, that the poor boy's courage began to fail. he looked down at the water, which seemed to be terribly far below him. at that moment the ship made a lurch or plunge, davy lost his hold, and with a loud cry fell headlong from the yard into the sea. in a moment ben block, who had been watching him, jumped overboard; a boat was lowered, and in less than ten minutes ben was picked up with davy clinging to him. not long after this they drew near the gulf of saint lawrence, and were beginning to think of the end of their voyage. but one night while davy lay sound asleep in his warm hammock, he was startled by a cry on deck, which was followed by a loud order for "all hands" to tumble up and shorten sail. the sailors are usually called "hands" at sea. in a moment davy was on deck, with only his trousers and shirt on. but he could not see anything, the night was so dark, and he could scarcely hear anything except the howling of the wind. "take in all sail!" roared the captain. the men rushed to obey, and davy was so well accustomed to the work that he too climbed to his usual place on the main topsail yard and began to haul in the sail. he could barely see the man next to him, and it was with difficulty he kept his hold of the yard, while the ship tossed and plunged in the waves. when nearly all sail was taken in the ship went easier, and the men assembled on the deck to await further orders. the gale increased, and suddenly the small bit of the fore-topsail that was hoisted burst into shreds with a clap like thunder, and carried away the fore-topmast with all its yards and rigging, part of the bowsprit, and the top of the mainmast. "clear away the wreck!" shouted the captain. some of the men ran for axes, and began to cut the ropes that fastened the broken masts to the ship, for there was a danger of the ship striking against them and knocking a hole in her side while she plunged. still the gale increased, and the mizzen topmast went overboard. the "mizzen" is the mast nearest to the stern. it is the smallest of the three. the lightning now began to flash, and the thunder to roar, while the crew of the _fair nancy_ stood on her deck clinging to the bulwarks, lest they should be washed overboard! little davy looked at the man next him, and saw that it was ben block. "oh, ben!" said he, "what an awful night it is! do you think we shall be lost?" ben shook his head. "i don't know, lad; but the lord can save us, if it be his will. pray to him, boy." "my poor mother!" murmured davy, as the tears rose to his eyes, while he prayed to god in his heart that he might be spared to see her again. at that moment there came a wave so big and black that davy thought the sea was going to turn upside down. it came on like a great dark mountain, high above the ship. "hold on for your lives!" cried some of the men, as the wave fell with a fearful crash and turned the ship over on her side--or on her "beam-ends," as sailors call it. they were in awful danger now, as the sea began to pour down into the cabins, and the masts and sails being in the water the ship could not "right," or become straight again. "cut away the masts!" roared the captain. the deck was now standing up like a wall, so that the men could not walk on it, but they managed with great difficulty to reach the mizzenmast, which a few strokes of the axe sent overboard. still the ship lay on her beam-ends. "cut away the mainmast!" cried the captain. the order was obeyed, and with a loud report, like a cannon shot, it went overboard too. immediately after the fall of the mainmast there came another wave, from which they never expected to rise again. it dashed down on the stern and drove in the cabin windows; but the worst of it was, that it swept away all the boats belonging to the ship. they had been securely fastened to the deck; but this wave carried them all away, so that now, if the ship sank, their only chance of escape was gone. the same wave snapped the foremast across near the deck. this was fortunate, because it enabled the ship to "right" herself, and once more the men were able to stand on the deck. the storm continued to rage still, however, and some of the men were sent to work the pumps, for there was a great deal of water in the ship now; so much, indeed, that she could hardly float. another party were ordered to fit up a small mast, which they tied to the stump of the foremast. this new one was called a "jury-mast;" and as they could not sail without a mast of some kind or other, they were very glad when they saw it up and a sail hoisted on it. during the night, however, another heavy wave broke this mast away also; so they were again left to toss like a log on the stormy waters. all this time the men were working hard at the pumps, but, although they worked for many hours without stopping, the water continued to increase in the hold, and they saw that the ship had sprung "a leak;" that is to say, some of the planks had started, or the seams had opened, and the water was pouring into it so fast that it was evident she would soon sink. this was very awful indeed. some of the men began to cry to god for mercy, others tore their hair and ran about like madmen, while some sat down and silently prepared to die! the morning light came at last. but what a sad sight it rose upon. the once noble ship now lay a wreck upon the water, with the masts and sails gone and her shattered hull ready to sink. the captain, who seemed to have lost all hope when the jury-mast broke, was standing on the poop, looking anxiously round the horizon in hopes of seeing a sail--but in vain. davy stood beside him, and looking up in his face, said, "please, sir, could we not make a raft?" "right, boy, right," replied the captain; "you're the best `man' amongst us. we're no better than girls to be giving way to despair in this way. hallo! lads, rouse up there; get all the spare yards and spars you can, and make a raft. look sharp now!" the captain said this in such a quick, commanding tone that all the sailors jumped to obey him, and in five minutes they were busily at work on the raft. first, they collected all the broken yards and bits of masts that were still floating alongside, dragging by the ropes that fastened them to the sides of the ship. these they arranged side by side, and tied them firmly together with ropes. then they collected all the spare timbers that were in the ship, and putting these above the others, fastened them with ropes too. after that they tore off some of the planks from the decks and bulwarks, with which they made a kind of floor to the raft. all this, although it takes a short time to tell, took a long, long time to do; for it was hard work moving such heavy timbers, and the poor men were very tired, having been up in the storm all night. besides this, although the wind had ceased, the waves were still high and would not let them work quietly. however, they finished it at last, and after it was done, they put a number of barrels of biscuit and some casks of water and wine on board. then they put a few blankets and a compass--that useful little machine that points always to the north, and shows the sailor which way to go, so that he sails in the dark night as surely as in the broad day. "now," said the captain, "i think that there is a chance of escape yet. get on board, lads, as fast as you can. i fear the ship won't float long." all the men now hastened on board. the captain's wife, who was the only female in the ship, was the first to step on the raft, and it soon began to be crowded. when about half of the sailors had left the ship the captain suddenly cried out, "ho! ben block, we've forgot a mast and sail. run below with a couple of hands and fetch one as fast as you can." just at that moment the ship gave a heavy plunge, the ropes broke, and the raft floated slowly away, leaving the men who were yet in the ship in a state of despair. one or two of them jumped into the sea and tried to swim to the raft; but the first man who did so was nearly drowned, and the others got back to the ship with great difficulty. it was a terrible sight to witness the misery of the poor captain, as he beheld his wife, standing with her arms stretched out towards him, and the raft drifting slowly away, until at length it appeared like a small black spot far off upon the sea. "oh, my poor wife!" he cried, "i shall never see you more." the tears were rolling down ben block's weatherbeaten face as he went up to the captain and took him by the hand. "never fear, sir," said he; "the almighty can save her." "thank you, ben, for saying that," replied the captain; "but the ship won't float long. my wife may indeed be saved, but we are sure to be lost." "i don't know that," cried ben, trying to look cheerful. "when you sent me down below, sir, to look for a mast and sail, i observed that the water in the hold had ceased rising. if we can only keep her afloat a little longer, we may manage to make another raft." the captain smiled sadly and shook his head, and davy, who had been standing beside him all the time, felt his heart sink again. to add to the horror of the scene, night came on, and the water was so high in the cabin that the captain and men who had been left in the wreck had to try to sleep on the wet decks the best way they could. next morning the wind was still blowing pretty hard, and they now saw that they were drawing near to a wild shore, where there seemed to be many large rocks in the water near the beach. the crew of the _fair nancy_ looked anxiously towards the land, hoping to see people there who might help them when the ship struck on the rocks; but they saw no one. in about an hour afterwards the ship struck, and the shock was so great that davy's heart seemed to leap into his throat. the shore was lined with great dark cliffs and precipices, at the foot of which the waves roared furiously. while the men stood looking helplessly at the land another wave lifted the ship, carried her forward a long way, and dashed her down on the rocks, where she stuck fast, with a sharp rock quite through her hull, and the water foaming round her. what made their situation more dreadful was, that a great deal of snow had fallen during the night. it covered the decks of the ship, and made the land look cold and dreary. "we must swim for it now," said the captain, as he looked sorrowfully at the boiling surf and immense waves which swept over the rocks, and bursting like thunder on the cliffs, were flung back upon the ship in spray. "no one can swim in such a surf as that," said one of the sailors gloomily. "surf" is the name given to the white foam which is formed by the waves when they dash upon the shore. it is very difficult, sometimes quite impossible, to swim in the surf of the sea, and many poor sailors have been hurled on the rocks by it and dashed in pieces while attempting to swim from their wrecked vessels to the land. every time a wave came it lifted the _fair nancy_, and, as it passed, let her fall heavily on the sharp rocks, so that she began to break up. still the men were afraid to venture into the sea, and they clung to the bulwarks, quite uncertain what to do. at last ben block turned to the captain and said-"i'm a good swimmer, captain, and i think i could swim to the shore well enough perhaps; but there are some o' the men who can't swim, and poor davy, there, could never do it; so i'll just throw a rope round my shoulders and make for the shore. if i land i'll fix the rope to the cliffs, and you'll all be able to get ashore easy enough. if i should be drowned,--it'll only be a little sooner, that's all, and it's well worth risking my life to save my shipmates." "you're a brave fellow, ben," said the captain. "go and do it if you can." ben block went down below and soon returned with a stout rope. on the end of this he made a loop, which he passed round his shoulders, and then, raising his eyes to heaven with an imploring look, he leapt into the sea. at first he swam vigorously, and the sailors looked on in anxious hope. but a large wave came. it fell,--and ben block disappeared, while a cry of fear rose from the deck of the ship. in a few seconds, however, they saw him rise again and struggle manfully with the raging billows. the next wave that came lifted ben up and threw him on the beach, to which he clung with all his power; but as the wave retired it swept him back into the sea, for he could not hold on to the loose sand. he now rolled over and over quite exhausted, and the sailors thought he was dead. but a man's life is dear to him, and he does not soon cease to struggle. another wave approached. it lifted ben up and threw him again on the beach. this time he made a desperate effort to hold on, and, fortunately, he observed a large rock close to where he lay. with a sudden spring he caught hold of it and held on till the wave went back; then he ran forward a few steps and caught hold of another rock a little higher up, so that when the next wave broke over him it had not power to draw him back. another run--and he was safe! the men gave a loud cheer when they saw him land. after he had rested a little, ben fastened the end of the rope to a mass of rock. the sailors hauled it tight and fixed the other end in the ship; and then, one by one, they slowly crept along the rope and reached the shore in safety. here they all fell on their knees and thanked god for their deliverance. but now they found that the land was not inhabited, and they walked along that dreary coast for several days, almost starved to death with hunger and cold, for they had only a few biscuits among them, and their clothes were never dry. little davy was the best walker among them, and helped to keep up their spirits greatly by his cheerful conversation as they toiled along. at last they arrived at a little village, where the people were exceedingly kind to them; gave them food and dry clothes, and, after they became stronger, sent them to the great city of quebec. here they were kindly treated, and finding a ship bound for england, they all returned home. you may imagine the delight of the poor captain when he arrived and found his wife safe and sound. she and all the people on the raft had been picked up by a homeward-bound vessel the day after they lost sight of their ship, and were brought safe back to england. and you may fancy the joy of little davy's parents when their son opened the cottage door one day and rushed into his mother's arms. davy never went to sea again, but continued for many years after to help his poor father to fish. and the _fair nancy_--that beautiful ship, which davy had watched so long, which he had seen launched, and which had sailed so gallantly from her native shores, with her snowy sails glancing in the sun like the white wings of a seagull--alas! alas! she lay a total wreck now, on the rocky shores of a foreign land. fishin' jimmy by annie trumbull slosson author's edition 1889 fishin' jimmy it was on the margin of pond brook, just back of uncle eben's, that i first saw fishin' jimmy. it was early june, and we were again at franconia, that peaceful little village among the northern hills. the boys, as usual, were tempting the trout with false fly or real worm, and i was roaming along the bank, seeking spring flowers, and hunting early butterflies and moths. suddenly there was a little plash in the water at the spot where ralph was fishing, the slender tip of his rod bent, i heard a voice cry out, "strike him, sonny, strike him!" and an old man came quickly but noiselessly through the bushes, just as ralph's line flew up into space, with, alas! no shining, spotted trout upon the hook. the new comer was a spare, wiry man of middle height, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, a thin brown face, and scanty gray hair. he carried a fishing-rod, and had some small trout strung on a forked stick in one hand. a simple, homely figure, yet he stands out in memory just as i saw him then, no more to be forgotten than the granite hills, the rushing streams, the cascades of that north country i love so well. we fell into talk at once, ralph and waldo rushing eagerly into questions about the fish, the bait, the best spots in the stream, advancing their own small theories, and asking advice from their new friend. for friend he seemed even in that first hour, as he began simply, but so wisely, to teach my boys the art he loved. they are older now, and are no mean anglers, i believe; but they look back gratefully to those brookside lessons, and acknowledge gladly their obligations to fishin' jimmy. but it is not of these practical teachings i would now speak; rather of the lessons of simple faith, of unwearied patience, of self-denial and cheerful endurance, which the old man himself seemed to have learned, strangely enough, from the very sport so often called cruel and murderous. incomprehensible as it may seem, to his simple intellect the fisherman's art was a whole system of morality, a guide for every-day life, an education, a gospel. it was all any poor mortal man, woman, or child, needed in this world to make him or her happy, useful, good. at first we scarcely realized this, and wondered greatly at certain things he said, and the tone in which he said them. i remember at that first meeting i asked him, rather carelessly, "do you like fishing?" he did not reply at first; then he looked at me with those odd, limpid, green-gray eyes of his which always seemed to reflect the clear waters of mountain streams, and said very quietly: "you would n't ask me if i liked my mother--or my wife." and he always spoke of his pursuit as one speaks of something very dear, very sacred. part of his story i learned from others, but most of it from himself, bit by bit, as we wandered together day by day in that lovely hill-country. as i tell it over again i seem to hear the rush of mountain streams, the "sound of a going in the tops of the trees," the sweet, pensive strain of white-throat sparrow, and the plash of leaping trout; to see the crystal-clear waters pouring over granite rock, the wonderful purple light upon the mountains, the flash and glint of darting fish, the tender green of early summer in the north country. fishin' jimmy's real name was james whitcher. he was born in the franconia valley of northern new hampshire, and his whole life had been passed there. he had always fished; he could not remember when or how he learned the art. from the days when, a tiny, bare-legged urchin in ragged frock, he had dropped his piece of string with its bent pin at the end into the narrow, shallow brooklet behind his father's house, through early boyhood's season of roaming along gale river, wading black brook, rowing a leaky boat on streeter or mink pond, through youth, through manhood, on and on into old age, his life had apparently been one long day's fishing--an angler's holiday. had it been only that? he had not cared for books, or school, and all efforts to tie him down to study were unavailing. but he knew well the books of running brooks. no dry botanical text-book or manual could have taught him all he now knew of plants and flowers and trees. he did not call the yellow spatterdock nuphar advena, but he knew its large leaves of rich green, where the black bass or pickerel sheltered themselves from the summer sun, and its yellow balls on stout stems, around which his line so often twined and twisted, or in which the hook caught, not to be jerked out till the long, green, juicy stalk itself, topped with globe of greenish gold, came up from its wet bed. he knew the sedges along the bank with their nodding tassels and stiff lance-like leaves, the feathery grasses, the velvet moss upon the wet stones, the sea-green lichen on boulder or tree-trunk. there, in that corner of echo lake, grew the thickest patch of pipewort, with its small, round, grayish-white, mushroom-shaped tops on long, slender stems. if he had styled it eriocaulon septangulare, would it have shown a closer knowledge of its habits than did his careful avoidance of its vicinity, his keeping line and flies at a safe distance, as he muttered to himself, "them pesky butt'ns agin!" he knew by sight the bur-reed of mountain ponds, with its round, prickly balls strung like big beads on the stiff, erect stalks; the little water-lobelia, with tiny purple blossoms, springing from the waters of lake and pond. he knew, too, all the strange, beautiful under-water growth: bladderwort in long, feathery garlands, pellucid water-weed, quillwort in stiff little bunches with sharp-pointed leaves of olive-green,--all so seldom seen save by the angler whose hooks draw up from time to time the wet, lovely tangle. i remember the amusement with which a certain well-known botanist, who had journeyed to the mountains in search of a little plant, found many years ago near echo lake, but not since seen, heard me propose to consult fishin' jimmy on the subject. but i was wiser than he knew. jimmy looked at the specimen brought as an aid to identification. it was dry and flattened, and as unlike a living, growing plant as are generally the specimens from an herbarium. but it showed the awl-shaped leaves, and thread-like stalk with its tiny round seed-vessels, like those of our common shepherd's-purse, and jimmy knew it at once. "there's a dreffle lot o' that peppergrass out in deep water there, jest where i ketched the big pick'ril," he said quietly. "i seen it nigh a foot high, an' it 's juicier and livin'er than them dead sticks in your book." at our request he accompanied the unbelieving botanist and myself to the spot; and there, looking down through the sunlit water, we saw great patches of that rare and long-lost plant of the cruciferse known to science as subularia aquatica. for forty years it had hidden itself away, growing and blossoming and casting abroad its tiny seeds in its watery home, unseen, or at least unnoticed, by living soul, save by the keen, soft, limpid eyes of fishin' jimmy. and he knew the trees and shrubs so well: the alder and birch from which as a boy he cut his simple, pliant pole; the shad-blow and iron-wood (he called them, respectively, sugarplum and hard-hack) which he used for the more ambitious rods of maturer years; the mooseberry, wayfaring-tree, hobble-bush, or triptoe,--it has all these names, with stout, trailing branches, over which he stumbled as he hurried through the woods and underbrush in the darkening twilight. he had never heard of entomology. guenee, hubner, and fabricius were unknown names; but he could have told these worthies many new things. did they know just at what hour the trout ceased leaping at dark fly or moth, and could see only in the dim light the ghostly white miller? did they know the comparative merits, as a tempting bait, of grasshopper, cricket, spider, or wasp; and could they, with bits of wool, tinsel, and feather, copy the real dipterous, hymenopterous, or orthopterous insect? and the birds: he knew them as do few ornithologists, by sight, by sound, by little ways and tricks of their own, known only to themselves and him. the white-throat sparrow with its sweet, far-reaching chant; the hermit-thrush with its chime of bells in the calm summer twilight; the vesper-sparrow that ran before him as he crossed the meadow, or sang for hours, as he fished the stream, its unvarying, but scarcely monotonous little strain; the cedar-bird, with its smooth brown coast of quaker simplicity, and speech as brief and simple as quaker yea or nay; the winter-wren sending out his strange, lovely, liquid warble from the high, rocky side of cannon mountain; the bluebird of the early spring, so welcome to the winter-weary dwellers in that land of ice and show, as he "from the bluer deeps lets fall a quick, prophetic strain," of summer, of streams freed and flowing again, of waking, darting, eager fish; the veery, the phoebe, the jay, the vireo,--all these were friends, familiar, tried and true to fishin' jimmy. the cluck and coo of the cuckoo, the bubbling song of bobolink in buff and black, the watery trill of the stream-loving swamp-sparrow, the whispered whistle of the stealthy, darkness-haunting whippoorwill, the gurgle and gargle of the cow-bunting,--he knew each and all, better than did audubon, nuttall, or wilson. but he never dreamed that even the tiniest of his little favorites bore, in the scientific world, far away from that quiet mountain nest, such names as troglodytes hyemalis or melospiza palustris. he could tell you, too, of strange, shy creatures rarely seen except by the early-rising, late-fishing angler, in quiet, lonesome places: the otter, muskrat, and mink of ponds and lakes,--rival fishers, who bore off prey sometimes from under his very eyes,--field-mice in meadow and pasture, blind, burrowing moles, prickly hedge-hogs, brown hares, and social, curious squirrels. sometimes he saw deer, in the early morning or in the dusk of the evening, as they came to drink at the lake shore, and looked at him with big, soft eyes not unlike his own. sometimes a shaggy bear trotted across his path and hid himself in the forest, or a sharp-eared fox ran barking through the bushes. he loved to tell of these things to us who cared to listen, and i still seem to hear his voice saying in hushed tones, after a story of woodland sight or sound: "nobody don't see 'em but fishermen. nobody don't hear 'em but fishermen." ii but it was of another kind of knowledge he oftenest spoke, and of which i shall try to tell you, in his own words as nearly as possible. first let me say that if there should seem to be the faintest tinge of irreverence in aught i write, i tell my story badly. there was no irreverence in fishin' jimmy. he possessed a deep and profound veneration for all things spiritual and heavenly; but it was the veneration of a little child, mingled as is that child's with perfect confidence and utter frankness. and he used the dialect of the country in which he lived. "as i was tellin' ye," he said, "i allers loved fishin' an' knowed 't was the best thing in the hull airth. i knowed it larnt ye more about creeters an' yarbs an' stuns an' water than books could tell ye. i knowed it made folks patienter an' commonsenser an' weather-wiser an' cuter gen'ally; gin 'em more fac'lty than all the school larnin' in creation. i knowed it was more fillin' than vittles, more rousin' than whisky, more soothin' than lodlum. i knowed it cooled ye off when ye was het, an' het ye when ye was cold. i knowed all that, o' course--any fool knows it. but--will ye b'l'eve it?--i was more 'n twenty-one year old, a man growed, 'fore i foun' out why 't was that away. father an' mother was christian folks, good out-an'-out calv'nist baptists from over east'n way. they fetched me up right, made me go to meetin' an' read a chapter every sunday, an' say a hymn sat'day night a'ter washin'; an' i useter say my prayers mos' nights. i wa'n't a bad boy as boys go. but nobody thought o' tellin' me the one thing, jest the one single thing, that 'd ha' made all the diffunce. i knowed about god, an' how he made me an' made the airth, an' everything an' once i got thinkin' about that, an' i asked my father if god made the fishes. he said 'course he did, the sea an' all that in 'em is; but somehow that did n't seem to mean nothin' much to me, an' i lost my int'rist agin. an' i read the scripter account o' jonah an' the big fish, an' all that in job about pullin' out levi'thing with a hook an' stickin' fish spears in his head, an' some parts in them queer books nigh the end o' the ole test'ment about fish-ponds an' fish-gates an' fish-pools, an' how the fishers shall l'ment--everything i could pick out about fishin' an' seen; but it did n't come home to me; 't wa'n't my kind o' fishin' an' i did n't seem ter sense it. "but one day--it's more 'n forty year ago now, but i rec'lect it same 's 't was yest'day, an' i shall rec'lect it forty thousand year from now if i 'm 'round, an' i guess i shall be--i heerd--suthin'--diffunt. i was down in the village one sunday; it wa'n't very good fishin'--the streams was too full; an' i thought i 'd jest look into the meetin'-house 's i went by. 't was the ole union meetin'-house, down to the corner, ye know, an' they had n't got no reg'lar s'pply, an' ye never knowed what sort ye 'd hear, so 't was kind o' excitin'. "'t was late, 'most 'leven o'clock, an' the sarm'n had begun. there was a strange man a-preachin', some one from over to the hotel. i never heerd his name, i never seed him from that day to this; but i knowed his face. queer enough i 'd seed him a-fishin'. i never knowed he was a min'ster; he did n't look like one. he went about like a real fisherman, with ole clo'es an' an ole hat with hooks stuck in it, an' big rubber boots, an' he fished, reely fished, i mean--ketched 'em. i guess 't was that made me liss'n a leetle sharper 'n us'al, for i never seed a fishin' min'ster afore. elder jacks'n, he said 't was a sinf'l waste o' time, an' ole parson loomis, he 'd an idee it was cruel an' onmarciful; so i thought i 'd jest see what this man 'd preach about, an' i settled down to liss'n to the sarm'n. "but there wa'n't no sarm'n; not what i 'd been raised to think was the on'y true kind. there wa'n't no heads, no fustlys nor sec'ndlys, nor fin'ly bruthrins, but the first thing i knowed i was hearin' a story, an' 't was a fishin' story. 't was about some one--i had n't the least idee then who 't was, an' how much it all meant--some one that was dreffle fond o' fishin' an' fishermen, some one that sot everythin' by the water, an' useter go along by the lakes an' ponds, an' sail on 'em, an' talk with the men that was fishin'. an' how the fishermen all liked him, 'nd asked his 'dvice, an' done jest 's he telled 'em about the likeliest places to fish; an' how they allers ketched more for mindin' him; an' how when he was a-preachin' he would n't go into a big meetin'-house an' talk to rich folks all slicked up, but he 'd jest go out in a fishin' boat, an' ask the men to shove out a mite, an' he 'd talk to the folks on shore, the fishin' folks an' their wives an' the boys an' gals playin' on the shore. an' then, best o' everythin', he telled how when he was a-choosin' the men to go about with him an' help him an' larn his ways so 's to come a'ter him, he fust o' all picked out the men he 'd seen every day fishin', an' mebbe fished with hisself; for he knowed 'em an' knowed he could trust 'em. "an' then he telled us about the day when this preacher come along by the lake--a dreffle sightly place, this min'ster said; he 'd seed it hisself when he was trav'lin' in them countries--an' come acrost two men he knowed well; they was brothers, an' they was a-fishin'. an' he jest asked 'em in his pleasant-spoken, frien'ly way--there wa'n't never sech a drawin', takin', lovin' way with any one afore as this man had, the min'ster said--he jest asked 'em to come along with him; an' they lay down their poles an' their lines an' everythin', an' jined him. an' then he come along a spell further, an' he sees two boys out with their ole father, an' they was settin' in a boat an' fixin' up their tackle, an' he asked 'em if they 'd jine him, too, an' they jest dropped all their things, an' left the ole man with the boat an' the fish an' the bait an' follered the preacher. i don't tell it very good. i 've read it an' read it sence that; but i want to make ye see how it sounded to me, how i took it, as the min'ster telled it that summer day in francony meetin'. ye see i 'd no idee who the story was about, the man put it so plain, in common kind o' talk, without any come-to-passes an' whuffers an' thuffers, an' i never conceited 't was a bible narr'tive. "an' so fust thing i knowed i says to myself, 'that 's the kind o' teacher i want. if i could come acrost a man like that, i 'd jest foller him, too, through thick an' thin.' well, i can't put the rest on it into talk very good; 't aint jest the kind o' thing to speak on 'fore folks, even sech good friends as you. i aint the sort to go back on my word,--fishermen aint, ye know,--an' what i 'd said to myself 'fore i knowed who i was bindin' myself to, i stuck to a'terwards when i knowed all about him. for 't aint for me to tell ye, who've got so much more larnin' than me, that there was a dreffle lot more to that story than the fishin' part. that lovin', givin' up, suff'rin', dyin' part, ye know it all yerself, an' i can't kinder say much on it, 'cept when i 'm jest all by myself, or--'long o' him. "that a'ternoon i took my ole bible that i had n't read much sence i growed up, an' i went out into the woods 'long the river, an' 'stid o' fishin' i jest sot down an' read that hull story. now ye know it yerself by heart, an' ye 've knowed it all yer born days, so ye can't begin to tell how new an' 'stonishin' 't was to me, an' how findin' so much fishin' in it kinder helped me unnerstan' an' b'l'eve it every mite, an' take it right hum to me to foller an' live up to 's long 's i live an' breathe. did j'ever think on it, reely? i tell ye, his r'liging 's a fishin' r'liging all through. his friends was fishin' folks; his pulpit was a fishin' boat, or the shore o' the lake; he loved the ponds an' streams; an' when his d'sciples went out fishin', if he did n't go hisself with 'em, he 'd go a'ter 'em, walkin' on the water, to cheer 'em up an' comfort 'em. "an' he was allers 'round the water; for the story 'll say, 'he come to the seashore,' or 'he begun to teach by the seaside,' or agin, 'he entered into a boat,' an' 'he was in the stern o' the boat, asleep.' "an' he used fish in his mir'cles. he fed that crowd o' folks on fish when they was hungry, bought 'em from a little chap on the shore. i 've oft'n thought how dreffle tickled that boy must 'a' ben to have him take them fish. mebbe they wa'n't nothin' but shiners, but the fust the little feller 'd ever ketched; an' boys set a heap on their fust ketch. he was dreffle good to child'en, ye know. an' who 'd he come to a'ter he 'd died, an' ris agin? why, he come down to the shore 'fore daylight, an' looked off over the pond to where his ole frien's was a-fishin'. ye see they 'd gone out jest to quiet their minds an' keep up their sperrits; ther 's nothin' like fishin' for that, ye know, an' they 'd ben in a heap o' trubble. when they was settin' up the night afore, worryin' an' wond'rin' an' s'misin' what was goin' ter become on 'em without their master; peter 'd got kinder desprit, an' he up an' says in his quick way, says he, 'anyway, _i_ 'm goin' a-fishin'.' an' they all see the sense on it,--any fisherman would,--an' they says, says they, 'we '11 go 'long too.' but they did n't ketch anythin'. i suppose they could n't fix their minds on it, an' everythin' went wrong like. but when mornin' come creepin' up over the mountings, fust thin' they knowed they see him on the bank, an' he called out to 'em to know if they'd ketched anythin'. the water jest run down my cheeks when i heerd the min'r ster tell that, an' it kinder makes my eyes wet every time i think on 't. for 't seems 's if it might 'a' ben me in that boat, who heern that v'ice i loved so dreffle well speak up agin so nat'ral from the bank there. an' he eat some o' their fish! o' course he done it to sot their minds easy, to show 'em he wa'n't quite a sperrit yit, but jest their own ole frien' who 'd ben out in the boat with 'em so many, many times. but seems to me, jest the fac' he done it kinder makes fish an' fishin' diffunt from any other thing in the hull airth. i tell ye them four books that gin his story is chock full o' things that go right to the heart o' fishermen,--nets, an' hooks, an' boats, an' the shores, an' the sea, an' the mountings, peter's fishin'-coat, lilies, an' sparrers, an' grass o' the fields, an' all about the evenin' sky bein' red or lowerin', an' fair or foul weather. "it 's an out-doors, woodsy, country story, 'sides bein' the heav'nliest one that was ever telled. i read the hull bible, as a duty ye know. i read the epis'les, but somehow they don't come home to me. paul was a great man, a dreffle smart scholar, but he was raised in the city, i guess, an' when i go from the gospils into paul's writin's it 's like goin' from the woods an' hills an' streams o' francony into the streets of a big city like concord or manch'ster." the old man did not say much of his after life and the fruits of this strange conversion, but his neighbors told us a great deal. they spoke of his unselfishness, his charity, his kindly deeds; told of his visiting the poor and unhappy, nursing the sick. they said the little children loved him, and everyone in the village and for miles around trusted and leaned upon fishin' jimmy. he taught the boys to fish, sometimes the girls too; and while learning to cast and strike, to whip the stream, they drank in knowledge of higher things, and came to know and love jimmy's "fishin' r'liging." i remember they told me of a little french canadian girl, a poor, wretched waif, whose mother, an unknown tramp, had fallen dead in the road near the village. the child, an untamed little heathen, was found clinging to her mother's body in an agony of grief and rage, and fought like a tiger when they tried to take her away. a boy in the little group attracted to the spot, ran away, with a child's faith in his old friend, to summon fishin' jimmy. he came quickly, lifted the little savage tenderly, and carried her away. no one witnessed the taming process, but in a few days the pair were seen together on the margin of black brook, each with a fish-pole. her dark face was bright with interest and excitement as she took her first lesson in the art of angling. she jabbered and chattered in her odd patois, he answered in broadest new england dialect, but the two quite understood each other, and though jimmy said afterward that it was "dreffle to hear her call the fish pois'n," they were soon great friends and comrades. for weeks he kept and cared for the child, and when she left him for a good home in bethlehem, one would scarcely have recognized in the gentle, affectionate girl the wild creature of the past. though often questioned as to the means used to effect this change, jimmy's explanation seemed rather vague and unsatisfactory. "'t was fishin' done it," he said; "on'y fishin'; it allers works. the christian r'liging itself had to begin with fishin', ye know." iii but one thing troubled fishin' jimmy. he wanted to be a "fisher of men." that was what the great teacher had promised he would make the fishermen who left their boats to follow him. what strange, literal meaning he attached to the terms, we could not tell. in vain we--especially the boys, whose young hearts had gone out in warm affection to the old man--tried to show him that he was, by his efforts to do good and make others better and happier, fulfilling the lord's directions. he could not understand it so. "i allers try to think," he said, "that 't was me in that boat when he come along. i make b'l'eve that it was out on streeter pond, an' i was settin' in the boat, fixin' my lan'in' net, when i see him on the shore. i think mebbe i 'm that james--for that's my given name, ye know, though they allers call me jimmy--an' then i hear him callin' me 'james, james.' i can hear him jest 's plain sometimes, when the wind 's blowin' in the trees, an' i jest ache to up an' foller him. but says he, 'i 'll make ye a fisher o' men,' an' he aint done it. i 'm waitin'; mebbe he 'll larn me some day." he was fond of all living creatures, merciful to all. but his love for our dog dash became a passion, for dash was an angler. who that ever saw him sitting in the boat beside his master, watching with eager eye and whole body trembling with excitement the line as it was cast, the flies as they touched the surface--who can forget old dash? his fierce excitement at rise of trout, the efforts at self-restraint, the disappointment if the prey escaped, the wild exultation if it was captured, how plainly--he who runs might read--were shown these emotions in eye, in ear, in tail, in whole quivering body! what wonder that it all went straight to the fisher's heart of jimmy! "i never knowed afore they could be christians," he said, looking, with tears in his soft, keen eyes, at the every-day scene, and with no faintest thought of irreverence. "i never knowed it, but i'd give a stiffikit o' membership in the orthodoxest church goin' to that dog there." it is almost needless to say that as years went on jimmy came to know many "fishin' min'sters;" for there are many of that school who know our mountain country, and seek it yearly. all these knew and loved the old man. and there were others who had wandered by that sea of galilee, and fished in the waters of the holy land, and with them fishin' jimmy dearly loved to talk. but his wonder was never-ending that, in the scheme of evangelizing the world, more use was not made of the "fishin' side" of the story. "haint they ever tried it on them poor heathen?" he would ask earnestly of some clerical angler casting a fly upon the clear water of pond or brook. "i should think 't would 'a' ben the fust thing they 'd done. fishin' fust, an' r'liging 's sure to foller. an' it 's so easy; fur heath'n mostly r'sides on islands, don't they? so ther 's plenty o' water, an' o' course ther 's fishin'; an' oncet gin 'em poles an' git 'em to work, an' they 're out o' mischief fur that day. they 'd like it better 'n cannib'ling, or cuttin' out idles, or scratchin' picters all over theirselves, an' bimeby--not too suddent, ye know, to scare 'em--ye could begin on that story, an' they could n't stan' that, not a heath'n on 'em. won't ye speak to the 'merican board about it, an' sen' out a few fishin' mishneries, with poles an' lines an' tackle gen'ally? i 've tried it on dreffle bad folks, an' it alters done 'em good. but"--so almost all his simple talk ended--"i wish i could begin to be a fisher o' men. i 'm gettin' on now, i 'm nigh seventy, an' i aint got much time, ye see." one afternoon in july there came over franconia notch one of those strangely sudden tempests which sometimes visit that mountain country. it had been warm that day, unusually warm for that refreshingly cool spot; but suddenly the sky grew dark and darker, almost to blackness, there was roll of thunder and flash of lightning, and then poured down the rain--rain at first, but soon hail in large frozen bullets, which fiercely pelted any who ventured outdoors, rattled against the windows of the profile house with sharp cracks like sounds of musketry, and lay upon the piazza in heaps like snow. and in the midst of the wild storm it was remembered that two boys, guests at the hotel, had gone up mount lafayette alone that day. they were young boys, unused to mountain climbing, and their friends were anxious. it was found that dash had followed them; and just as some one was to be sent in search of them, a boy from the stables brought the information that fishin' jimmy had started up the mountain after them as the storm broke. "said if he could n't be a fisher o' men, mebbe he knowed nuff to ketch boys," went on our informant, seeing nothing more in the speech, full of pathetic meaning to us who knew him, than the idle talk of one whom many considered "lackin'." jimmy was old now, and had of late grown very feeble, and we did not like to think of him out in that wild storm. and now suddenly the lost boys themselves appeared through the opening in the woods opposite the house, and ran in through the sleet, now falling more quietly. they were wet, but no worse apparently for their adventure, though full of contrition and distress at having lost sight of the dog. he had rushed off into the woods some hours before, after a rabbit or hedgehog, and had never returned. nor had they seen fishin' jimmy. as hours went by and the old man did not return, a search party was sent out, and guides familiar with the mountain paths went up lafayette to seek for him. it was nearly night when they at last found him, and the grand old mountains had put on those robes of royal purple which they sometimes assume at eventide. at the foot of a mass of rock, which looked like amethyst or wine-red agate in that marvellous evening light, the old man was lying, and dash was with him. from the few faint words jimmy could then gasp out, the truth was gathered. he had missed the boys, leaving the path by which they had returned, and while stumbling along in search of them, feeble and weary, he had heard far below a sound of distress. looking down over a steep, rocky ledge, he had seen his friend and fishing comrade, old dash, in sore trouble. poor dash! he never dreamed of harming his old friend, for he had a kind heart. but he was a sad coward in some matters, and a very baby when frightened and away from master and friends. so i fear he may have assumed the role of wounded sufferer when in reality he was but scared and lonesome. he never owned this afterward, and you may be sure we never let him know, by word or look, the evil he had done. jimmy saw him holding up one paw helplessly, and looking at him with wistful, imploring brown eyes, heard his pitiful whimpering cry for aid, and never doubted his great distress and peril. was dash not a fisherman? and fishermen, in fishin' jimmy's category, were always true and trusty. so the old man without a second's hesitation started down the steep, smooth decline to the rescue of his friend. we do not know just how or where in that terrible descent he fell. to us who afterward saw the spot, and thought of the weak old man, chilled by the storm, exhausted by his exertions, and yet clambering down that precipitous cliff, made more slippery and treacherous by the sleet and hail still falling, it seemed impossible that he could have kept a foothold for an instant. nor am i sure that he expected to save himself, and dash too. but he tried. he was sadly hurt, i will not tell you of that. looking out from the hotel windows through the gathering darkness, we who loved him--it was not a small group--saw a sorrowful sight. flickering lights thrown by the lanterns of the guides came through the woods. across the road, slowly, carefully, came strong men, bearing on a rough hastily made litter of boughs the dear old man. all that could have been done for the most distinguished guest, for the dearest, best-beloved friend, was done for the gentle fisherman. we, his friends, and proud to style ourselves thus, were of different, widely separated lands, greatly varying creeds. some were nearly as old as the dying man, some in the prime of manhood. there were youths and maidens and little children. but through the night we watched together. the old roman bishop, whose calm, benign face we all know and love; the churchman, ascetic in faith, but with the kindest, most indulgent heart when one finds it; the gentle old quakeress with placid, unwrinkled brow and silvery hair; presbyterian, methodist, and baptist,--we were all one that night. the old angler did not suffer--we were so glad of that! but he did not appear to know us, and his talk seemed strange. it rambled on quietly, softly, like one of his own mountain brooks, babbling of green fields, of sunny summer days, of his favorite sport, and ah! of other things. but he was not speaking to us. a sudden, awed hush and thrill came over us as, bending to catch the low words, we all at once understood what only the bishop put into words as he said, half to himself, in a sudden, quick, broken whisper, "god bless the man, he 's talking to his master!" "yes. sir, that 's so," went on the quiet voice; "'t was on'y a dog sure nuff; 'twa'n't even a boy, as ye say, an' ye ast me to be a fisher o' men. but i haint had no chance for that, somehow; mebbe i wa'n't fit for 't. i 'm on'y jest a poor old fisherman, fishin' jimmy, ye know, sir. ye useter call me james--no one else ever done it. on'y a dog? but he wa'n't jest a common dog, sir; he was a fishin' dog. i never seed a man love fishin' mor 'n dash." the dog was in the room, and heard his name. stealing to the bedside, he put a cold nose into the cold hand of his old friend, and no one had the heart to take him away. the touch turned the current of the old man's talk for a moment, and he was fishing again with his dog friend. "see 'em break, dashy! see 'em break! lots on 'em to-day, aint they? keep still, there 's a good dog, while i put on a diffunt fly. don't ye see they 're jumpin' at them gnats? aint the water jest 'live with 'em? aint it shinin' an' clear an'--" the voice faltered an instant, then went on: "yes, sir, i 'm comin'--i 'm glad, dreffle glad to come. don't mind 'bout my leavin' my fishin'; do ye think i care 'bout that? i 'll jest lay down my pole ahin' the alders here, an' put my lan'in' net on the stuns, with my flies an' tackle--the boys 'll like 'em, ye know--an' i 'll be right along. "i mos' knowed ye was on'y a-tryin' me when ye said that 'bout how i had n't been a fisher o' men, nor even boys, on'y a dog. 't was a--fishin' dog--ye know--an' ye was allers dreffle good to fishermen,--dreffle good to--everybody; died--for 'em, did n't ye?-"please wait--on--the bank there, a minnit; i 'm comin' 'crost. water 's pretty--cold this--spring--an' the stream 's risin'--but--i--can--do it;--don't ye mind--'bout me, sir. i 'll get acrost." once more the voice ceased, and we thought we should not hear it again this side that stream. but suddenly a strange light came over the thin face, the soft gray eyes opened wide, and he cried out, with the strong voice we had so often heard come ringing out to us across the mountain streams above the sound of their rushing: "here i be, sir! it 's fishin' jimmy, ye know, from francony way; him ye useter call james when ye come 'long the shore o' the pond an' i was a-fishin.' i heern ye agin, jest now--an' i--straightway--f'sook--my--nets--an'--follered--" had the voice ceased utterly? no, we could catch faint, low murmurs and the lips still moved. but the words were not for us; and we did not know when he reached the other bank. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 21797-h.htm or 21797-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/7/9/21797/21797-h/21797-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/7/9/21797/21797-h.zip) a sailor's lass by emma leslie, author of "the gipsy queen," "dearer than life," "gytha's message," etc. with five illustrations. second edition. london: s.w. partridge & co., 9, paternoster row. [illustration: "he picked up the white bundle, and hurried after peters."] contents. chapter i. one stormy night 7 chapter ii. the fisherman's home 22 chapter iii. tiny's hope 41 chapter iv. tiny's treasure 57 chapter v. on the sands 74 chapter vi. bad times 92 chapter vii. a tea meeting 110 chapter viii. brighter days 127 chapter i. one stormy night. "mother, we're afloat agin." it was a gruff, sleepy voice that spoke, and the old fisherman turned over and snored on, as though the fact of their home being afloat was of no consequence to him. his wife, however, was by no means so easy in her mind, for it was only during the equinoctial gales and an unusually high tide that their home was lifted from its moorings; and now it had been swinging and swaying for hours, and the rusty chains that held it fast to some posts were creaking and straining as though the next gust of wind would certainly carry them out to sea or drive them up the river, where they would inevitably be swamped in a very short time, for their boat-home was leaky at the bottom--had been a water-logged boat before the fisherman took possession of it and turned it into a quaint-looking cottage by running up some wooden walls along the sides, and roofing it in with planks and tarpaulin. thus converted into a dwelling-house, the boat had been secured, by four chains fixed to posts in the ground, on the top of a mud-bank that formed the boundary of the mouth of the river. the ocean itself was less than a quarter of a mile from where the old boat was moored, and so the poor woman might well be excused for growing more alarmed as the minutes went on and the gale increased, until the boat fairly rocked, and the children in the adjoining cabin began crying and screaming in their fright. "coomber! coomber!" she said at last, shaking her husband, and starting up in bed; for a sound more dreadful than the children's screams had made itself heard above the din of the wind and waves. "there's a ship, coomber, close in shore; i can hear the guns!" screamed his wife, giving him another vigorous shake. "ship! guns!" exclaimed the old fisherman, starting up in bed. the next minute he was on his feet, and working himself into his clothes. "she must be on the sand-bar if you heard the guns," he said. a sudden lurch of the boat almost pitched the old man forward, and the children's screams redoubled, while mrs. coomber hastily scrambled out of bed and lighted the lantern that hung against the wall. "what are yer going to do?" asked her husband, in some surprise; "women ain't no good in such work as this." "what are you going to do?" asked mrs. coomber, almost crying herself; "the boat will soon be adrift with this wind and tide, and we shall all be drowned like rats in a hole." "nay, nay, old woman, the boat was made taut enough before i brought you here, and you think she wouldn't have broke away before this if she was going to do it? don't be a stupid lubber," he added. "but the children, coomber, the children. i ain't afraid for myself," said the mother, with a sob. "well, well, the old boat'll hold the boys for many a day yet," said the fisherman; "you go in and stop their noise, while i get help for the poor souls that are surely perishing out there." "but what can you do for them?" asked his wife; "there ain't a boat besides ours at bermuda point, nor a man to help you manage it besides bob." "no, no; bob and i couldn't manage the boat in such a sea as this; but he shall go with me to fellness. bob! bob!" called his father, in the same breath. "aye, aye," came an answering shout from the adjoining cabin. "slip into your things as quick as you can; we must be off to fellness; there's a ship out there on the bar sands." "i'm a'most ready, dad; i heard mother call yer, and thought you'd let me go along," replied bob. before the fisherman put on his sou'-wester he took a black bottle from a recess, and after taking a hearty draught, he said, "it's lucky we've got a drop to-night," as he handed it to his wife; and with a parting word to her not to be afraid, he and bob stepped out of the boat-house door, to meet the full fury of the blast, that threatened at first to carry them off their legs. the three miles' walk to the little fishing village of fellness was no easy task such a wild night as this, for although the road was inland, it was fully exposed to the sea, and between the wilder outbreaks of the wind and rain they could hear the guns of distress, and occasionally see a rocket piercing the midnight blackness of the sky, appealing for help for the drowning men. at the coastguard station, midway between the point and the village, they found the men on the alert, and two volunteered to go with coomber and help man the boat. then the four plodded silently along the slushy road, for talking was next to impossible in such a gale, and it needed all the strength and energy they could muster to fight the wind and rain. they made their way to the beach as soon as they reached fellness, and, as they expected, found most of the men gathered there, watching the distressed vessel. "halloo! here's coomber from the point," said one, as the new-comers pushed their way in among them. "what are yer standing here for?" shouted coomber, in some impatience; "looking won't do her no good." "we can't do nothing else," said the man; "we've got rodwell's boat here--she's the best craft on this coast for such a trip, and we've made three tries in her, but it's no good; nothing could live in such a sea as this; we've been beat back every time, and well-nigh swamped." "well, mates, i don't say nothing but what yer may have tried; but suppose now one of yer had got a boy out in that there ship--_i've_ got a boy in that, or another, if he ain't gone to where there's no more sea," said the old fisherman, with a groan; and before he had done speaking, one or two had moved to where the boat had been dragged on to the low sandy shore. "we'll try again," they said, in quiet but determined voices. "let the youngsters go," said coomber, as two or three married men pressed forward; "them as has got wives ain't no call to go on such a trip as this. there'll be enough of us; there's me and bob, and rook and white came with us a purpose, and----" "but how about your wife, coomber?" interrupted one of the men. "oh, never you fear, lads; she'll not grudge me if i save her boy. now, lads, look here; seven of us'll be enough, and we've got four." there were so many volunteers for the three vacant places, that the men seemed on the point of quarrelling among themselves now for the privilege of joining in this dangerous errand; but by common consent coomber was constituted the leader of the party, and he chose three of the most stalwart of the single men, and the rest were allowed to run the boat down through the surf. then, with a loud cheer from all who stood on the shore, the seven brave men bent to their oars, and during a slight lull in the wind, they made a little headway towards the wreck. but the next minute they were beaten back again, and the boat well-nigh swamped. again they pushed off, but again were they driven back; and five times was this repeated, and thus an hour was lost in the fruitless endeavour to get away from the shore. at length the fury of the storm somewhat abated, and they were able to get away, but it was a long time before they could get near the dangerous bar sands, on which the vessel had struck, and when they did get there, the ship had disappeared. there was plenty of wreckage about--broken spars, fragments of masts and torn sail-cloth. "we're too late," groaned one of the men, as he peered through the darkness, trying to descry the hull of the vessel. they had not heard the guns or seen a rocket thrown up for some time. "they're all gone, poor fellows," said another, sadly; "we may as well go back now, before the gale freshens again." "oh, stop a bit; we'll look among this rubbish, and see what there is here; perhaps some of them are holding on to the floating timber," said coomber, who had frequently been out on a similar errand. they raised their voices together, and cried "hi! hi!" trying to outscream the wind; but it was of no use; there was no answering call for help, and after waiting about for some time, and going as near to the dangerous sands as they dared, they at length reluctantly turned their boat towards the shore, and began to row back. but before they had got far on their way, they descried the gleam of something white floating in front of them. "only a bit of sail-cloth," said one, as they paused in their rowing to concentrate all their attention upon the object. "let's make sure, mates," said coomber. "steady, now; mind your oars; let her float; it's coming this way, and we'll pick it up;" and in another minute coomber had reached over and seized the white bundle, which he found to be carefully lashed to a spar. "it's a child!" he exclaimed. "mates, we ain't come out for nothing, after all. now row for dear life," he said, as he carefully laid the bundle in the bottom of the boat. they could do nothing for it here, not even ascertain whether it was dead or alive; and they pulled for the shore with even greater eagerness than they had left it. the dawn was breaking before they got back, and they were welcomed with a shout from their waiting comrades, who were watching anxiously for the return of the boat. there was disappointment, however, in the little crowd of watchers when they saw only the brave crew returning from the perilous journey. "what, nothing!" exclaimed one of the men, as the boat drew close in shore. "only a child, and that may be dead," shouted one of the crew. "but i think it's alive," said coomber. "run, peters, and rouse up your missus; the womenfolk are better hands at such jobs than we are;" and as soon as he could leave the boat, he picked up the white bundle, and hurried after peters, leaving his companions to tell the story of their disappointment. mrs. peters was a motherly woman, and had already lighted a fire to prepare some breakfast for her husband, in readiness for his return from the beach, so the wet clothes were soon taken off the child, and they saw it was a little girl about five years old, fair and delicate-looking, decently, but not richly clad, with a small silver medal hung round her neck by a black ribbon. at first they feared the poor little thing was dead, for it was not until mrs. peters had well-nigh exhausted all her best-known methods for restoring the apparently drowned, that the little waif showed any sign of returning life. coomber stood watching with silent but intense anxiety the efforts of the dame to restore animation, not daring to join in the vigorous chafings and slappings administered, for fear his rough horny hands should hurt the tender blue-white limbs. for some time the woman was too much occupied with her task to notice his presence, but when her labour was rewarded by a faint sigh, and a slightly-drawn breath parted the pale lips, she heard a grunt of satisfaction behind her; and turning her head, she exclaimed, "what gowks men are, to be sure." "eh, what is it, dame?" said coomber, meekly; for he had conceived a wonderful respect for mrs. peters during the last ten minutes. "ha' you been a-standing there like a post all this while, and never put out yer hand to help save the child?" she said, reproachingly. "i couldn't, dame, i couldn't with such hands as these; but i'll do anything for you that i can," whispered the fisherman, as though he feared to disturb the child. "well, i want a tub of hot water," snapped mrs. peters. "you'll find the tub in the backyard, and the kettle's near on the boil. look sharp and get the tub, and then go upstairs and get a blanket off the bed." coomber soon brought the tub, and a pitcher of cold water that stood near, but it was not so easy for him to grope his way upstairs. the staircase was narrow and dark, and seemed specially contrived that the uninitiated might bump and bruise themselves. coomber, in his boat-home, having no such convenience or inconvenience in general use, found the ascent anything but easy, and the dame's sharp voice was heard calling for the blanket long before he had groped his way to the bedroom door. but what would he not do for that child whose faint wail now greeted his ears? he pushed on, in spite of thumps and knocks against unexpected corners, and when he had found the blanket, was not long in making his way down with it. "now what's to be done with her?" demanded the woman, as she lifted the little girl out of the water, and wrapped her in the blanket. "won't she drink some milk?" said coomber, scratching his head helplessly. "i dessay she will presently; but who's to keep her? you say there ain't none of the people saved from the wreck to tell who she belongs to?" "no, there ain't none of 'em saved, so i think i'll take her myself," said coomber. "you take her!" exclaimed the woman; "what will your wife say, do you think, to another mouth to fill, when there's barely enough now for what you've got--four hearty boys, who are very sharks for eating?" "well, dame, i've had a little gal o' my own, but ain't likely to have another unless i takes this one," said coomber, with a little more courage, "and so i ain't a-going to lose this chance; for i do want a little gal." "oh, that's all very well; but you ain't no call to take this child that's no ways your own. she can go to the workus, you know. peters'll take her by-and-by. her clothes ain't much, so her belongings ain't likely to trouble themselves much about her. yer can see by this trumpery medal she don't belong to rich folks; so my advice is, let her go to the workus, where she'll be well provided for." "no, no! the missus'll see things as i do, when i talk to her a bit. so if you'll take care of her for an hour or two, while i go home and get off these duds, and tell her about it, i'll be obliged;" and without waiting for the dame's reply, coomber left the cottage. [illustration] chapter ii. the fisherman's home. "why, mother, are you here?" coomber spoke in a stern, reproachful tone, for he had found his wife and the cowering children huddled together in the corner of the old shed where the family washing and various fish-cleaning operations were usually carried on; and the sight did not please him. "are yer all gone mad that yer sitting out there wi' the rain drippin' on yer, when yer might be dry an' comfortable, and have a bit o' breakfast ready for a feller when he comes home after a tough job such as i've had?" "i--i didn't know when you was coming to breakfast," said mrs. coomber, timidly, and still keeping close in the corner of the shed for fear her husband should knock her down; while the children stopped their mutual grumblings and complaints, and crept closer to each other behind their mother's skirts. "couldn't you ha' got it ready and waited wi' a bit o' fire to dry these duds?" exclaimed her husband. "but the boat, coomber, it wasn't safe," pleaded the poor woman. "we might ha' been adrift any minute." "didn't i tell yer she was safe, and didn't i ought to know when a boat's safe better nor you--a poor tool of a woman? come out of it," he added, impatiently, turning away. the children wondered that nothing worse than hard words fell to their share, and were somewhat relieved that the next question referred to bob, and not to their doings. "you say he ain't come home?" said coomber. "i ain't seen him since he went with you to fellness. ain't you just come from there?" said his wife, timidly. "of course i have, but bob ought to have been back an hour or so ago, for i had something to do in the village. come to the boat, and i'll tell you all about it," he added, in a less severe tone; for the thought of the child he had rescued softened him a little, and he led the way out of the washing-shed. the storm had abated now, and the boat no longer rocked and swayed, so that the children waded back through the mud without fear, while their father talked of the little girl he had left with dame peters at fellness. they listened to his proposal to bring her home and share their scanty meals with very little pleasure, and they wished their mother would say she could not have another baby; but instead of this mrs. coomber assented at once to her husband's plan of fetching the child from fellness that afternoon. the coombers were not a happy family, for the fisherman was a stern, hard man by nature, and since he had lost his little girl he had become harder, his neighbours said. at all events, his wife and children grew more afraid of him--afraid of provoking his stern displeasure by any of those little playful raids children so delight in; and every one of them looked forward to the day when they could run away from home and go to sea, as their grown-up brother had done. bob, the eldest now at home, was already contemplating taking this step very soon, and had promised to help dick and tom when they were old enough. it had been a startling revelation to bob to hear his father speak as he had done on the beach at fellness about his brother, for he had long ago decided that his father did not care a pin for any of them, unless it was for the baby sister who had died, and even of that he was not quite sure. he had made up his mind, as he walked through the storm that morning, that he would not go back again, but make his way to grimsby, or some other seaport town, after his business at fellness was done. but what he had heard on the beach from his father somewhat shook his purpose, and when he learned from dame peters afterwards, that the child they had rescued was to share their home, he thought he would go back again, and try to bear the hard life a little longer, if it was only to help his mother, and tell her his father did care for them a bit in spite of his stern, hard ways. perhaps mrs. coomber did not need to be told that her husband loved her and his children; at all events, she received bob's information with a nod and a smile, and a whispered word. "yer father's all right, and a rare good fisherman," she said; for in spite of the frequent unkindness she experienced, mrs. coomber was very fond of her husband. "ah, he's a good fisherman, but he'd be all the better if he didn't have so much of that bottle," grumbled bob; "he thinks a deal more about that than he does about us." it was true enough what bob said. if his father could not by any chance get his bottle replenished, wife and children had a little respite from their usual hard, driving life, and he was more civil to their only neighbours, who were at the farm about half a mile off; but once the bottle got filled again, he grew sullen and morose, or quarrelsome. he had recently made himself very disagreeable to farmer hayes in one of his irritable fits, a fact which suddenly recurred to his wife when she heard of the sick child being brought home to her to nurse, but she dared not mention it to her husband. when coomber brought the child that afternoon, he said, gaily: "here's a present for yer from the sea, mother; maybe she'll bring us good luck coming as she did." "it 'ud be better luck if we'd picked up a boat," muttered bob, who was standing near. "why, she ain't such a baby as you said," exclaimed mrs. coomber, as she unpinned the shawl in which she was wrapped; "she is about five." "five years old," repeated coomber; "but she'd talk if she was as old as that, and dame peters told me she'd just laid like a dead thing ever since she'd been there." "she's ill, that's what it is, poor little mite--ill and frightened out of her senses;" and mrs. coomber gathered her in her arms, and kissed the little white lips, and pressed her to her bosom, as only a tender mother can, while the boys stood round in wondering silence, and coomber dashed a tear from his eye as he thought of the little daughter lying in fellness churchyard. but he was ashamed of the love that prompted this feeling, and said hastily: "now, mother, we mustn't begin by spoiling her;" but then he turned away, and called bob to go with him and look after the boat. for several days the child continued very ill--too ill to notice anything, or to attempt to talk; but one day, when she was lying on mrs. coomber's lap before the fire, the boys mutely looking at her as she lay, she suddenly put up her little hands, and said in a feeble whisper, "dear faver dod, tate tare o' daddy and mammy, and tiny;" and then she seemed to drop off into a doze. the boys were startled, and mrs. coomber looked down hastily at the little form on her lap, for this was the first intimation they had had that the child could talk, although mrs. coomber fancied that she had showed some signs of recognising her during the previous day. "i say, did you hear that?" whispered dick. "was she saying her prayers, mother, like harry hayes does?" mrs. coomber nodded, while she looked down into the child's face and moved her gently to and fro to soothe her to sleep. "but, mother, ought she to say that? did you hear her? she said 'dear god,'" said dick, creeping round to his mother's side. mrs. coomber was puzzled herself at the child's words. they had awakened in her a far-off memory of days when she was a girl, and knelt at her mother's knee, and said, "our father," before she went to bed. but that was long before she had heard of bermuda point, or thought of having boys and girls of her own. when they came she had forgotten all about those early days; and so they had never been taught to say their prayers, or anything else, in fact, except to help their father with the boat, shoot wild-fowl in the winter, and gather samphire on the shore during the summer. she thought of this now, and half wished she had thought of it before. perhaps if she had tried to teach her children to pray, they would have been more of a comfort to her. perhaps jack, her eldest, would not have run away from home as he did, leaving them for years to wonder whether he was alive or dead, but sending no word to comfort them. the boys were almost as perplexed as their mother. the little they had heard of god filled them with terror, and so to hear such a prayer as this was something so startling that they could think and talk of nothing else until their father came in, when, as usual, silence fell on the whole family, for coomber was in a sullen mood now. the next day tiny, as she had called herself, was decidedly better. a little bed had been made up for her in the family living-room, and she lay there, quiet but observant, while mrs. coomber went about her work--cooking and cleaning and mending, and occasionally stopping to kiss the little wistful face that watched her with such quiet curiosity. "am i in a s'ip now?" the child asked at length, when mrs. coomber had kissed her several times. "you're in a boat, deary; but you needn't be afraid; our boat is safe enough." "i ain't afraid; dod is tatin' tare of me," said the child, with a little sigh. mrs. coomber wondered whether she was thinking of the storm; whether she could tell them who she was, and where her friends might be found; and she ventured to ask her several questions about this, but failed to elicit any satisfactory answer. the child was sleepy, or had forgotten what mrs. coomber thought she would be sure to remember; but it was evident she had taken notice of her surroundings during the last few days, for after a little while she said, "where's der boys--dat dick and tom?" mrs. coomber was amused. "they're out in the boat looking after the nets," she said. "when they toming home?" asked the little girl; "home to dis boat, i mean," she added. "oh, they'll come soon," replied mrs. coomber. "but, now, can't you tell me something about your mother and father, and where you lived, my deary?" she asked again. "i tomed in a s'ip, and 'ou my mammy now," said the child, looking round the cosy room with perfect content. "but where is your own mammy, who taught you to say your prayers?" asked mrs. coomber. the tears came into the sweet blue eyes for a minute as she said, "see dorn up dere, to tay in dod's house, and tiny do too if see a dood dal." mrs. coomber laid down the jacket she was patching, and kissed the serious little face. "is your mother dead, my deary?" she asked, while the tears shone in her own eyes. "see done to see daddy, and tell him about tiny," answered the child; from which mrs. coomber gathered that mother and father were both dead; and when her husband came home she told him what she had heard, which seemed to afford the old fisherman a good deal of satisfaction. "then she's ours safe enough, mother," he said, rubbing his hands, "and when she gets well she'll toddle about the old boat like our own little polly did." "but i thought you said peters was going to see the newspaper man to tell him to put something in the _stamford mercury_ about finding her, so that her friends should know she was saved, and come and fetch her." "i said her mother or father," interrupted coomber, sharply; "but if they're dead, there ain't anybody else likely to want such a little 'un, and so we may keep her, i take it. but peters shall go to the newspaper man, never fear," added coomber; "i don't want to rob anybody of the little 'un; but if nobody don't come in a week, why then, mary----" and coomber paused, and looked at his wife. "well, then, i'll get out little polly's things; they'll just about fit her," said mrs. coomber, hastily wiping her eyes with her apron for fear her husband should reproach her again for her tears. when the boys came in, the little girl said, shyly, "tome and tell me about the nets." dick looked at her, and then at his mother. "what does she mean?" he asked, drawing near the little bed where tiny lay. "she wants to know about the fishing," said mrs. coomber. "have you had a good take, dick?" asked his mother, rather anxiously, for she wanted some more milk for tiny, and her little secret store of halfpence was gone now. "oh, it ain't much," said dick; "bob has taken a few plaice to fellness, and i dessay he'll bring back some bread or some flour." "but i want some milk for the child; she can't eat bread and fish and potatoes now she's ill. couldn't you run up to the farm, dick, and ask mrs. hayes if she wants a bit o' fish, and i'll be thankful for a drop o' milk for it." but dick looked dubious. "i'd like to go," he said, "if it was only to have a word with harry hayes, and ask him about his rabbits; but father don't like the farm people now, and he said i was never to speak to them. you know they've had a quarrel." "well, what are we to do? they are our only neighbours, and they ain't a bad sort either, mrs. hayes is a kind soul, who has children of her own, and would let me have milk in a minute if she knew i wanted it for this poor little mite," said mrs. coomber, in perplexity as to the best thing to do. "i'll go, mother, if you can find any fish worth taking," at last said dick. mrs. coomber went and turned over what the boys had brought. the best had been picked out and sent to fellness, and what was left was not more than sufficient for themselves; but she carefully looked out the largest she could find and washed it. while she was doing this her husband came in. "it's a poor take to-day, mother," he said. "yes, and i wanted a bit extra, to get some milk for the child," said mrs. coomber; "but i think i can manage with this," she said, still busying herself with the fish, and not turning to look at her husband. "what are yer goin' to do wi' it?" he inquired. "i want to send dick up to the farm; mrs. hayes will give me some milk for it, i know," replied his wife, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact tone. [illustration: "'me likes 'ou,' she said." (_see page 40._)] "and you'd send dick to that place when i said they shouldn't go near the house," said her husband, angrily. "take the fish and cook it for supper. not a bit o' my fish shall they have." "but the milk. what am i to do for the milk for the child now she's ill?" "what have yer done afore?" demanded her husband; and the poor woman was obliged to confess that she had taken milk from the man as he went past in his cart to the village each day since the child had been there. "she couldn't do wi'out milk," protested mrs. coomber. "how do you know she couldn't?" said her husband. "what business have you to spend money for milk--what business have you wi' money at all?" he inquired, suspiciously; for he saw in this wastefulness a cause for the recent strange scarcity of whisky; and he felt he had been deeply wronged. his quarrel with hayes had also been disregarded, and this made him further angry with his wife, and he strictly charged her never to have any more dealings with any of the farm people. "we can live very well without milk," he said. "i will feed the little 'un, and you'll see she can eat fish and bread as well as the rest of us." it was useless for mrs. coomber to protest against this; she knew if her husband made up his mind to do anything he would do it; but she almost dreaded supper-time coming, for she could not tell how tiny would like the proposed change in her nurse and diet. but as it happened the little girl was very pleased to be lifted out of bed and seated on coomber's knee at the table. "me likes 'ou," she said, patting his cheek with her little white hand; and she ate the fish and bread as though she was quite used to such food. [illustration] chapter iii. tiny's hope. the slant rays of the setting sun lay on the wide stretch of level sand surrounding bermuda point, for the tide was out, and had left it smooth, or slightly rippled as with tiny wavelets. standing at the very edge of the sands, with her eyes shaded, and her clothes blowing round her bare legs, was a little fair-haired girl. she was slender and delicate-looking still, in spite of the sun-browned arms and face. months had passed, but tiny was still at the point. she stood gazing seawards for some minutes, and then turned and walked slowly across the rippled sand. "i can't see him, dick," she said, in a disappointed tone. "oh, well, never mind," said the boy, who sat scooping the loose sand up in a heap, beyond the reach of the present ordinary tides. "have you filled both the baskets?" asked the little girl, as she waded through the loose dry sand to where the boy was sitting. "no, that i ain't," answered dick, "mother said you could pick the samphire to-day." "yes, but you said you'd help me," said the girl, walking steadily across the sand to the salt-marsh beyond. here the samphire grew in abundance, and the little girl set to work to fill the two large baskets that stood near. "you might come and help, dick," she called, hardly repressing a sob as she spoke. "look here, i'll help if you'll just come and make some more of them letters. you said you would, you know," added the boy, still piling up the sand. "oh, dick, you know i can't; you know i've forgot a'most everything since i've been here;" and this time the little girl fairly burst into tears, and sat down beside the half-filled baskets, and sobbed as though her heart would break. the boy's heart was touched at the sight of her distress, and he ran across to comfort her. "don't cry, tiny; i'll help yer, and then we'll try agin at the letters. i know three--a b c: you'll soon find out about the others, and make 'em in the sand for me." but tiny shook her head. "i'd know 'em if i had a book," she said, sadly; "ain't it a pity daddy ain't got one?" "what 'ud be the good of books to dad?" said dick. "harry hayes has got some, i know; but then he goes to school, and knows all about 'em. there, let's forget we see him with that book yesterday, for it ain't no good for us to think about it," concluded dick; for he did not like to see tiny's tears, and the easiest way of banishing them was to forget the original cause, he thought. but the little girl was not of the same opinion. she shook her head sadly as she said-"i've forgot a'most everything my mother told me." "oh, that you ain't," contradicted the boy, "you never forget to say your prayers before you go to bed. i wonder you ain't forgot that; i should, i know." "how could you, dick, if you knew god was waiting to hear you?" said tiny, lifting her serious blue eyes to his face. "then why ain't he waiting to hear me?" asked dick. the question seemed to puzzle the little girl for a minute or two; but at length she said-"he is, dick, i think; i'm a'most sure he's waiting for yer to begin." "then he's waited a good while," said dick, bluntly; and he got up and began to pull away at the samphire, by way of working off or digesting the wonderful thought. after working away in silence for some minutes, dick said-"d'ye think god cares for us down here at bermuda point?" tiny paused, with her hands full of samphire. "why shouldn't he?" she said. "i know he cares for me. he loves me," she added, in a tone of triumph; "my mother told me so. she said he loved me just as well as she did." "i'd like to know whether he cares about me," said dick. "d'ye think yer could find out for us, tiny? yer see everybody likes you--mother, and father, and bob; and harry hayes showed you his book yesterday. you see you're a gal, and i think you're pretty," added dick, critically; "so it 'ud be a wonder if he didn't like you." "and why shouldn't he love you, dick?" said tiny. dick looked down at the patched, ragged, nondescript garments that served him as jacket and trousers, and then at his bare, sunburnt arms and legs. "well, i'm just dick of the point. i ain't a gal, and i ain't pretty." nobody could dispute the latter fact, which dick himself seemed to consider conclusive against any interest being taken in him, for he heaved a sigh as he returned to his work of picking the samphire. the sigh was not lost on tiny. "look here, dick," she said, "you ain't a gal, and p'r'aps you ain't pretty, but i love you;" and she threw her arms round his neck as he stooped over the basket. "i love yer, dick, and i'll find out all about it for yer. i'm a'most sure god loves yer too." "oh, he can't yet, yer know," said dick, drawing his arms across his eyes to conceal the tears that had suddenly come into them. "i don't never say no prayers nor nothing. i ain't never heerd about him, only when dad swears, till you come and said your prayers to him." "still, he might, yer know," said tiny; "but if you'll help, i'll find out all about it." "what can yer do?" asked dick. "well, i'll tell yer why i want dad to come home soon to-night," said tiny, resting her hands on the basket, and looking anxiously across the sea. "mother said he'd take the samphire by boat to fellness, and i thought perhaps he'd take me too." "well, s'pose he did?" said dick, who could see no connection between a visit to the village and the attainment of the knowledge they both desired. "why, then i might get a book," said tiny. "i'd go with dad to sell the samphire; and then we'd see the shops; and if he had a good take, and we got a lot of samphire, he'd have enough money to buy me a book, as well as the bread and flour and tea." dick burst into a loud laugh. "so this is your secret; this is what you've been thinking of like a little goose all day." tiny was half offended. "you needn't laugh," she said; "i shall do it, dick." "will yer?" he said, in a teasing tone. "if there wasn't no whisky, and there was bookshops at fellness, you might. why, what do you think the village is like?" he asked. "like? oh, i dunno! everything comes from fellness," added the little girl, vaguely. to the dwellers at the point, the little fishing-village was the centre of the universe; and tiny, with faint recollections of a large town, with broad streets, and rows of shops all brilliantly lighted at night, had formed magnificently vague notions of fellness as being something like this; and she had only got to go there, and it would be easy to coax the old fisherman to buy her a book, as she coaxed him to build her a castle in the sand, or take her on his knee and tell her tales of ships that had been wrecked on the bar sands. "but do you know what fellness is like?" persisted dick. "there ain't no shops at all--only one, where they sells flour, and bread, and 'bacca, and tea, and sugar, and soap. they has meat there sometimes; but i never sees no books, and i don't believe they ever has 'em there," concluded the boy. "perhaps they keeps 'em in a box where you can't see 'em," suggested tiny, who was very unwilling to relinquish her hope. "pigs might fly, and they will when they sells books at fellness," remarked dick. "where does harry hayes get his from?" suddenly asked the girl; and at the same moment she espied a speck on the horizon, which she decided was a fisherman's boat. "he's coming, dick, dad's coming," she exclaimed. "make haste--make haste and fill up the baskets;" and she tore away at the seaweed, piling it into the baskets as fast as her small hands would permit. "now we'll carry one down," she said, taking hold of the handle. "catch hold, dick;" for she wanted to be at the edge of the sands by the time the boat touched the shore. but dick was in no such hurry to meet his father. "there's plenty of time," he said, leisurely untying a knot in a piece of string. "no there isn't, dick; don't you know i'm going to fellness in the boat." "but you're afraid," said the boy; "ain't father tried to coax you lots o' times to go out with him, and yer never would? you'll just get to the edge, and when yer sees it rock a bit yer'll run away." "no, i won't, dick, this time," said the little girl. but as she spoke a shiver of fear and dread ran through her frame at the thought of the swaying boat. dick saw it, and laughed. "didn't i tell yer you was afraid," he said, in a mocking tone; "what's the good of going down there, when you're frightened?" "but i want a book, dick; i must learn to read, and find out what we want to know. oh, do make haste!" she added, as she saw the boat approaching the shore. dick was still laughing, but he helped her carry the basket, though he teased her as they went along about being frightened. they got across the sands with their samphire, just as coomber and bob were springing ashore. "oh, daddy, take me with yer to fellness," called tiny, shutting her eyes as she spoke that she might not see the treacherous waves and the swaying boat. "halloo, halloo! what now, deary?" exclaimed coomber. and it was wonderful to see the change in his hard face as he lifted the little girl in his arms and kissed her. "she says she'll go," said dick, "but i don't believe she means it." "yes i do. you'll take me, daddy, won't yer--'cos i've picked a lot of samphire--all that, and another basketful up there? go and fetch it, bob, and daddy can put it in the boat. and i'm going, too." "so you shall, deary, so you shall," said the old fisherman, in a pleased tone, for he had often tried to coax her out with him on the sea; but the memory of that awful night on the bar sands still clung to her, and the sight of the boat, swayed about at the mercy of the waves, filled her with a nameless terror. "there won't be a storm, will there?" asked tiny, with a shiver of fear, as the fisherman carefully lifted her in and placed her beside the basket of samphire. "my deary, if i thought the wind 'ud be even a bit fresh to-night, i wouldn't take yer," said the fisherman, in an earnest tone. he had never been so tender with one of his own children--unless it was to the little girl lying in the churchyard--as he was to this little waif of the sea; and now, as he pushed off from the shore, he was careful to keep the old boat as steady as possible, and sat watching her little frightened face as he plied his oars. he kept as close to the beach, too, as he well could, just skirting the sand-banks, so that she should have the comfort of seeing the land all the way along. after a few minutes tiny grew less frightened, and ventured to ask a question about where they were going. "oh, i'll take yer to see dame peters while bob unloads the boat," said coomber, nodding at her in an approving manner. "and shall i see the shops?" asked tiny; for she did not believe what dick had told her. "shops, shops!" repeated the fisherman, resting on his oars for a minute to stare at the little girl. "well, there's a shop," he said, slowly; "but i don't see what you can want there." "do they sell books?" asked tiny, eagerly. for answer the fisherman burst into a loud laugh. "what does a little 'un like you know about books?" he said. "but i know of something they do sell, as 'll suit you a deal better; they sell sweets, and almond rock, as well as 'bacca and bread, and you shall have some, my deary." the fisherman expected a joyous outburst in anticipation of these unwonted dainties, but the little girl said slowly-"don't they sell books, too, daddy? i'd rather have a book than almond rock," she added. "why, what do you want with a book, a little 'un like you?" said coomber, impatiently. "we both wants it, dick and me; we wants to find out whether god loves boys as well as gals." the fisherman looked at her serious little face for a minute, and then burst into a laugh again. "well, you are a rum 'un as ever i came across. did you hear that, bob?" he asked, appealing to his elder son, who was steering. bob turned his sulky face round. "what's she saying now?" he asked. "what was, it little 'un--whether god loved boys and gals, wasn't it?" asked the fisherman, who was highly amused at the question. "he don't love none of us, i can tell her that," said bob, sharply. "he forgot us long ago, if ever he knowed anything about us." "there, what d'ye think o' that, little 'un?" said the fisherman, pulling away at the oars. tiny looked perplexed for a minute or two, but at length she said: "i think god knows all about the point, 'cos he loves me, and he listens when i say my prayers. but s'pose i tell him," she suddenly added, as though the thought had just occurred to her; "i can ask him to bless you and mammy, and dick and bob. but i should like to get a book," she said, in conclusion. "oh, the sweets 'll do as well," said the fisherman, who saw little use in books. he might have humoured tiny in what he looked upon as a most extraordinary whim, but he never remembered seeing such a thing as a book in fellness all the years he had known the place. people might have books, some of them, at least, but they were not of much use to fisher-folks, and he rather despised them. the sun had gone down before they landed; but the moon was rising; and so, between daylight and moonlight, they would be able to get back without any difficulty, when the fish and samphire were disposed of. "now, bob, get her unloaded, while i take the little 'un up to see dame peters," said coomber, as he lifted tiny out of the boat. she was looking round eagerly in search of the houses and shops, for in spite of what she had been told, she could not divest herself of the idea that fellness was a grand, glorious place, where everything could be bought if people only had fish and seaweed enough; and surely two big baskets of samphire were sufficient to buy a book. but to her disappointment she saw only a few lounging fishermen and children--like herself and dick--instead of the crowds of people she had expected; and as for shops--well, she could see a row of stone cottages at a distance. there might be a dozen, perhaps, and a few sheds and outbuildings, but the rest of the landscape was flat and unoccupied as their own point; and at the sight tiny hid her face in the fisherman's neck and burst into tears. [illustration] chapter iv. tiny's treasure. "well, now, if you can make her out, it's more than i can," said coomber, pausing in the doorway of dame peters' cottage, after he had seated tiny by the old woman's fire. "oh, leave her here for half an hour; she'll be all right by the time you come back; there's no 'counting for children, and she may feel frightened a bit, for all she ain't cried till she got ashore." "it's just that that beats me," said the fisherman; "she's as lively as you please in the boat, but as soon as she gets out, down she pops her head, and begins to pipe her eye." "well, there, you go and look after perkins and the fish, and i'll see to her," said dame peters, a little impatiently; for she had some potatoes cooking for her husband's supper, and she knew they needed attention. after looking to these, she turned to tiny, who had dried her tears by this time, and sat watching the old woman. "d'ye like to see pictures, deary?" she asked; and at the same time she opened the top drawer of an old-fashioned chest of drawers, and brought out a print, which she laid on the table, and lifted tiny, chair and all, close up to look at it. pictures were not to be seen in every cottage a few years ago, as they may be now. the _band of hope review_ and _british workman_ had not been heard of in fellness at the time of which we write, and so dame peters was very choice of her picture, although she knew nothing about the reading at the back of it. tiny brightened up wonderfully when her eyes fell upon this treasure; but after looking at it for some minutes, while dame peters turned out the potatoes, she ventured to lift it up and look at the other side, and she exclaimed joyfully: "oh, it's a book! there's reading on it!" "what, what!" exclaimed the old woman, turning from the fireplace to see what had happened. "what is it, child?" "see, see, there's reading--g o d! what does that spell?" asked tiny, looking up in the old woman's face, her finger still resting on the word she had picked out. "bless the child, how should i know? s'pose it is some sort of reading, as you say; but i never learned a letter in my life." "and i've a'most forgot," said tiny, sadly; and then her finger roved over the printed page, and she found that she could remember most of the letters now she saw them again; but how to put them together was the difficulty. she had forgotten how to do this entirely. g o d spelt a word familiar enough to her at one time, but which of all the words she used now those letters were intended to signify, she could not remember. again and again her finger returned to the well-remembered letters, but beyond this her memory failed her; and she sat, with puckered brow and steadfast eyes, still looking at the printed page instead of the picture, when coomber came back. "oh, daddy, daddy, look here!" exclaimed tiny; "here's a book with reading!" "she's just sat and looked at them letters, as she calls 'em, ever since you've been gone," said dame peters, in a half-offended tone; for her picture was not valued as much as it ought to be, she thought. "oh, she's a rum 'un," said coomber. "well, now, are you ready, little 'un?" he asked. tiny looked up wistfully in the old woman's face. "couldn't i take this home, and show it to dick?" she asked, timidly, laying her hand on the print. "take my picture home!" exclaimed the old woman. coomber turned the paper over, and looked at it contemptuously. "peters got this when he went to grimsby, i s'pose?" he said. "yes, he did." "well now, couldn't you let her have it, and let peters bring you another?" said the fisherman, who was anxious that his darling should be gratified if possible. but the old woman was little more than a child herself over this picture, and was unwilling to part with it at first. at last she agreed to sell it to tiny for a basket of samphire, for this seaweed made a kind of pickle among the fisher-folk, and was of some marketable value, too, for it did not grow everywhere along the coast, although round bermuda point it flourished in great luxuriance. tiny was only too glad to obtain such a treasure on such easy terms, although she was paying about five times the value of it; and when it had been folded up and carefully stowed away in coomber's pocket, she was quite ready to go to the boat, although dame peters pressed them to stay and have some of the hot potatoes for supper. tiny seemed brimful of joy that night; and when she was seated in the boat, and they were rowing over the placid water, she so far forgot her fears as to begin singing. something in the surroundings had recalled to her mind the time when she used to sing nearly every night her mother's favourite hymn. it all came back to her as freshly as though she had sung it only last week; and her sweet young voice rang out bold and clear- "star of peace to wanderers weary, bright the beams that smile on me; cheer the pilot's vision dreary, far, far at sea." she paused there, not feeling quite sure of the next verse; but coomber said quickly-"go on, deary, go on; don't you know the next bit?" "i'll try," said tiny; and again the voice rang out in its childish treble- "star of hope, gleam on the billow, bless the soul that sighs for thee; bless the sailor's lonely pillow, far, far at sea." "who told you that, deary?" asked the fisherman, eagerly, when she paused again. "my mother used to sing it every night. she used to say it was meant for daddy. and she told me i must always sing it, too, only somehow i've forgot everything since i came here." "never mind the rest, deary; try and think about that. it's just the song for a sailor and a sailor's lass." "that's just what my mother used to say--that i was a sailor's lass!" exclaimed tiny. "and she taught you just the right kind of a song. now try a bit more, deary," he added, coaxingly. "star of faith, when winds are mocking all his toil, he flies to thee; save him, on the billows rocking, far, far at sea." "i don't think i know any more," said the child, as she finished this verse. "well, you've done first-rate, deary; and mind, you must sing that song to me every night," he added. for a little while they went on in silence, and nothing could be heard but the gentle lap, lap of the waves at the side of the boat, until coomber said: "come, sing to us again about that sailor's star. bob, you try and pick it up as she sings," he added. so the verses were sung through again, and without a break this time; and tiny was able to recall the last verse, too, and sang- "star divine, oh! safely guide him, bring the wanderer back to thee; sore temptations long have tried him, far, far at sea." "bravo, little 'un," exclaimed bob, who was completely charmed out of his sulky mood by the singing. "i say, bob," suddenly exclaimed coomber, "is the bottle up there?" "i ain't seen the bottle," sulkily responded the lad, his ill-humour returning at once. "i--i took it up, and told 'em to fill it," exclaimed coomber; and as he spoke he drew in his oars, and felt under the seat, and all round the boat. "i must ha' forgot it, thinking about the little 'un and her picture," he said, after searching round the boat in vain. "it's too late to go back," said bob; "it'll be dark soon." "ye-es, it's too late to go back with the child," said coomber, slowly and regretfully; though what he should do without his nightly dose of whisky he did not know. "sing again," whispered bob to tiny; and the next minute the little voice rang out once more its "star of peace." it brought peace to the angry fisherman--the more angry, perhaps, because he had nobody but himself to blame that the bottle had been left behind. before they landed the singing had worked its mysterious charm, and the fisherman had almost forgotten his anger, and his bottle, too. "you tie up the boat, and make haste in, bob," he said, as he took the little girl in his arms, and stepped out upon the shore. a light was shining in the window of the old boat-house, and tiny was all impatience to get home and show her treasure to dick. "take it out of your pocket, daddy, and give it to me," she said, as they were crossing the sands; and the moment the door was opened she ran in, exclaiming, "i've got it! i've got it, dick!" "hush, hush, deary; dick and tom have gone to bed, and both are fast asleep. come in and get your supper; it's been waiting ever so long for you." as she spoke, the poor woman cast several furtive glances at her husband, fearing that he was more than usually morose, as he had not spoken; but, to her surprise, he said, in a merry tone: "bless you, mother, the little 'un has got something better than supper. dame peters wanted her to stay and have some hot potatoes; but she was in such a hurry to be off with her prize that she wouldn't look at the potatoes." "i've got some reading," said tiny, in a delighted whisper, holding up her sheet of paper. "why, what's the good of that?" exclaimed mrs. coomber, in a disappointed tone. "nobody at the point can read, unless it's the hayes' at the farm." "and she'd better not let me catch her with any of them," put in coomber, sharply. "dick and me are going to learn to read by ourselves," announced tiny, spreading out her picture on the table. this would enhance its value to everybody, she thought, since dame peters set such store by it solely because of the picture. and so she did not venture to turn it over to con the letters on the other side until after bob had come in, and they had all looked at it. "what's it all about?" asked bob, turning to the smoking plate of fish which his mother had just placed on the table. "don't you see it's a kind man putting his hand on the boys' heads?" said tiny, rather scornfully. "oh, anybody can see that," said bob. "but what does it mean? that's what i want to know." but tiny could only shake her head as she gazed earnestly at the print. "i dunno what it is," she said, with a sigh. "come, come, you must put that away for to-night," said mrs. coomber; "you ought to have been in bed an hour ago;" and she would have taken the picture away, but tiny hastily snatched it up, and, carefully folding it, wrapped it in another piece of paper, and then begged that it might be put away in a drawer for fear it should be lost before the morning. mrs. coomber smiled as she took it from her hand. "i'll take care of it," she said, "and you go and get your supper." it was not often that the fisherman's family were up so late as this, but no one seemed in a hurry to go to bed. coomber himself was so good-tempered that his wife and bob forgot their habitual fear of him in listening to his account of how brave tiny had been, and how dame peters thought she was growing very fast. then tiny had to sing one verse of "star of peace," after she had finished her supper--mrs. coomber would not let her sing more than that, for she was looking very sleepy and tired--and then they all went to bed, with a strange, new feeling of peace and content, mrs. coomber vaguely wondering what had become of the whisky bottle, and wishing every night could be like this. as soon as her eyes were open the next morning tiny thought of her treasure, and crept into the boys' room to tell dick the wonderful news. but to her surprise she found the bed was empty; and, peeping into the kitchen, saw mrs. coomber washing up the breakfast things. "oh, mammy, what is the time?" she exclaimed, but yawning as she spoke. "oh, you're awake at last. make haste and put your clothes on, and come and have your breakfast," said mrs. coomber. "where's dick?" asked tiny. "he's helping daddy and bob with the net; and you can go, too, when you've had your breakfast. daddy wouldn't let the boys come and wake you 'cos you was so tired last night." "what are they doing to the net?" asked tiny, as she came to the table. "mending it, of course. daddy's going shrimping to-day." "what a bother that net is," said tiny. "daddy's always mending it." "yes, so he is, deary. it's old, you see, and we can't afford to get a new one." "i've got to get a lot of samphire to-day, and i promised dick i'd make some more letters for him in the sand," said tiny, meditatively. "but daddy wants you to help him with the net," suggested mrs. coomber. the little girl had always been so pliant, so amenable to control, that mrs. coomber was surprised to hear her say passionately-"i won't do that nasty net. i must pick the samphire for dame peters, and show dick my picture, first;" and then she snatched up a basket, and ran out, not to the sands, where the fisherman and his boys sat mending the torn net, but away to the salt-marsh, where the seaweed grew thickest, and she could fill her basket most quickly. in an hour or two she came home, looking tired and cross. "ain't dick come home yet?" she asked, throwing herself on the floor. "they ain't done the net yet. tom came to fetch you a little while ago." "i don't want tom, i want dick. we're going to make some letters, and learn to read," said tiny. "you'd better leave the reading alone, if it makes you so cross," said mrs. coomber. "no, it don't make me cross; it's that nasty net." "but you always liked to help daddy wind the string and mend the net before. why don't you go to them now?" but tiny would not move. she lay on the floor, kicking and grumbling, because dick could not leave the net and come and see her picture. "you're a very naughty girl, tiny," said mrs. coomber at last; "and i don't see how you can think god will love you if you don't try to be good." the little girl sat up instantly, and looked earnestly into her face. "my other mammy used to say something like that," she said, slowly. and then she burst into tears, and ran and shut herself in the boys' bedroom. what passed there, mrs. coomber did not know; but, half an hour afterwards, as she glanced out of the little kitchen window, she saw her running across the sands to where the group of boys sat mending the old net; and she smiled as she thought of what her words had done. she did not know what a hard fight tiny had had with herself before she could make up her mind to give up her own way; she only thought how pleased her husband would be when he saw the child come running towards him, and that a fit of ill-humour, from which they would probably all have suffered, had been warded off by the little girl's conquest of herself. but neither tiny nor mrs. coomber ever forgot that day. a new element was introduced into the lives of the fisherman's family. the little girl learned her first lesson in self-control, and dick and tom began to master the difficulties of the alphabet; for, when the net was finished, and bob and his father waded out into the sea on their shrimping expedition, tiny ran and fetched her pretty picture to show the boys, and then they all set to work with bits of stick to make the letters in the sand. [illustration] chapter v. on the sands. tiny was somewhat disappointed as the days went on to find that her pupils, tom and dick, took less and less interest in learning the letters she marked in the sand, or pointed out on the paper. they teased her to know how to put the letters together and make them into words which they could understand. but, alas! labour as she would, tiny could not get over this difficulty even for herself. she had a dim idea that g o d spelt god, but she could not be quite sure--not sure enough to tell dick that it was so. it was enough, however, to quicken her own interest in what the lines of letters might be able to tell her if only she could solve the mystery of putting them into words, for doubtless they would clear up her anxiety as to whether god loved boys as well as girls. she did not spend her whole time poring over her picture. she gathered samphire, helped to sort the fish when it was brought in, or mend the much-despised net; but every day she spent some time diligently tracing out the letters she knew and spelling over g o d. she might have mastered the difficulty with very little trouble if the fisherman had been less obstinate in his quarrel with the farm people, for harry hayes and his sisters were often down on the sands, sometimes bringing their books with them, and dick, who longed to join them in their play, tried to persuade tiny to go and ask them to help her with the reading difficulty. "dad won't say anything to you, even if he should see you talking; but he won't see, and i won't tell," urged dick, one day, when the children from the farm were at play among the sandhills, and occasionally casting sidelong glances towards dick and tiny. but the little girl only shook her head. "i can't, dick," she said; "god wouldn't like it; mother told me that long ago." "but how is he to know if you don't tell him?" said the boy, in an impatient tone. "don't you know that god can see us all the time; that he's taking care of us always?" said tiny, slowly. "oh, come! what'll you tell us next?" said dick, looking over his shoulder with a gesture of fear. "he ain't here now, you know," he added. "yes he is," said the little girl, confidently; "mother said god was a spirit. i dunno what that is, but it's just as real as the wind. we can't see that you know, but it's real; and we can't see god, but he's close to us all the time." the boy crept closer to her while she was speaking. "what makes you talk like that?" he said, in a half-frightened tone. "what's a matter, dick?" she asked, not understanding his fear. "don't you like to think god is close to you, and all round you," she suddenly added, in surprise. dick shook his head. "nobody never thinks about god at bermuda point, so p'r'aps he don't come here," he said, at last, in a tone of relief. "oh, i say, tiny, look! harry hayes has got a book! let's go and see what it's about!" "well, we'll ask dad when he come home to-night, and p'r'aps he'll let us," said the little girl, turning resolutely to her own paper again. "oh, then, it's dad you're afraid of, and not god?" said dick. "afraid! what do you mean?" asked tiny. "god loves me, and takes care of me, and so does daddy; and if i was to talk to harry hayes, it would make him cross, and god doesn't like us to make people cross; and little gals has to do as they are told, you know." "oh yes; i know all about that," said dick; "but what do you suppose god thinks of dad when he makes himself cross with the whisky?" "oh! he's dreadfully sorry, dick, i know he is, for he makes me afraid of him sometimes, when he's had a big lot; and he's just the dearest daddy when he forgets to bring the bottle home from fellness." "ah, but that ain't often," grunted dick; "and if god wouldn't like you to talk to harry hayes, 'cos dad says you musn't, i'd like to know what he thinks of dad sometimes, that's all." and then dick ran away, for if he could not speak to the farm children, he liked to be near them when they came to play on the sands. a minute or two after dick had left her, tiny was startled by a sound close at hand, and, looking round, she saw coomber coming from the other side of the sandhill. "oh, dad, i thought you was out in the boat," she said. [illustration: "'i want you to sing a bit, while i rub away at this old gun.'" (_see page 81._)] "bob and tom have gone by themselves to-day, for i wanted to clean the gun ready for winter," said the fisherman, still rubbing at the lock with a piece of oiled rag. tiny looked up at him half shyly, half curiously, for if he had only been on the other side of the sand-ridge, he must have heard all she and dick had been talking about. but if he had heard the fisherman took no notice of what had passed. "come, i want you to sing a bit, while i rub away at this old gun," he said. "sing 'star of peace'; it'll sound first-rate out here;" as though he had never heard it out there before, when, as a matter of fact, scarcely a day passed but she sang it to please him. when she had finished, he said, quickly: "what do you think about that 'star of peace' deary? it's the sailor's star, you know, so i've got a sort of share in it like." "i think it means god. i'm a'most sure mother said it meant god," added the little girl. "ah, then, i don't think there's much share of it for me," said coomber, somewhat sadly; and he turned to rubbing his gun again, and began talking about it--how rusty he had found it, and how he would have to use it more than ever when winter came, for the boat was growing old, and would not stand much more knocking about by the rough wintry sea; so he and bob must shoot more wild birds, and only go out in calm weather when winter came. then half shyly, and with apparent effort, he brought the conversation round so as to include farmer hayes. "he ain't a bad sort, you know, tiny, if he could just remember that a fisherman is a bit proud and independent, though he may be poor; and if you could do one of them young 'uns a good turn any time, why, you're a sailor's lass, yer know, and a sailor is always ready to do a good turn to anybody." "yes, daddy," said tiny, slowly and thoughtfully; and then, after a minute's pause, she said: "daddy, i think harry or polly would just like to help me a bit with this reading." for answer the fisherman burst into a loud laugh. "that's what you'd like, i s'pose?" he said, as he looked at her. "yes; i want to find out about this picture, and these letters tell all about it, i know--if i only could find out what they mean," said tiny, eagerly. "oh, well, when i'm gone indoors you can go and ask 'em if they'd like to help you," he said, with another short laugh. "maybe you'll be able to tell us all about it when winter comes, and it'll soon be here now," added the fisherman, with a sigh. never before had coomber looked forward with such dread to the winter. until lately he had always thought the fishing-boat would "last his time," as he used to say; but he had patched and repaired it so often lately, until at last the conviction had been forced upon him that it was worn out; and to be caught in a sudden squall on the open sea, would inevitably break her up, and all who were in her would meet with a watery grave. he was as brave as a lion; but to know that his boat was gradually going to pieces, and that its timbers might part company at almost any moment, made even his courage quail; especially when he thought of his wife, and the boys, and this little helpless girl. some hard things had been said at fellness about his folly in taking her upon his hands when she could without difficulty have been sent to the poorhouse. a girl was such a useless burden, never likely to be helpful in managing a boat, as a boy might be; and it was clear that no reward would ever be obtained from her friends, even if they were found, for her clothing made it evident that she was only the child of poor parents. this had been the reasoning among the fellness busybodies ever since coomber had announced his intention of taking the little girl home; but he was as obstinate in this as in most other things. he had followed his own will, or rather the god-like compassion of his own heart, in spite of the poverty that surrounded him, and the hard struggle he often had to get bread enough for his own children. "i'll just have to stay out a bit longer, or go out in the boat a bit oftener," he said, with a light laugh, when they attempted to reason him out of his project. he did not know then that the days of his boat were numbered; but he knew it now--knew that starvation stared them in the face, and at no distant date either. he could never hope to buy a new boat. it would cost over twenty pounds, and he seldom owned twenty pence over the day's stock of bread and other household necessaries. among these he counted his whisky; for that a fisherman could do his work without a daily supply of ardent spirits never entered his head. blue ribbon armies and temperance crusades had never been heard of, and it was a fixed belief among the fisher folk that a man could not work without drinking as well as eating, and drinking deeply, too. so coomber never thought of curtailing his daily allowance of grog to meet the additional expense of his household: he rather increased the allowance, that he might be able to work the boat better, as he fancied, and so catch more fish. when he forgot his bottle and left it at fellness, it struck him as something all but marvellous that he should be able to work the next day without his usual drams, but it had not convinced him that he could do without it all together. of its effect upon himself, in making him sullen, morose, and disagreeable, he was in absolute ignorance, and so the children's talk about it came upon him as a revelation. he knew that tiny sometimes shrank from and avoided him; but he had considered it a mere childish whim, not to be accounted for by anything in himself; and so to hear that she was absolutely afraid of him sometimes was something to make him think more deeply than he had ever done in his life before. but he did not say a word to tiny about this. when he had done rubbing his gun he carried it home, and tiny was left free to make acquaintance with the farm children. she walked shyly up to where they were sitting--polly reading, and harry throwing sand at dick, who had seated himself at a short distance, and was returning the salute. "would--wouldn't you like to tell me about these letters, please?" said tiny, holding out her paper to polly. "well, that's a rum way of asking," said harry, with a laugh. "suppose she wouldn't now, little 'un," he added. "then she mustn't," said tiny, stoutly; though the tears welled up to her eyes at the thought of all her hopes being overthrown just when they seemed about to be realised. "don't, harry; what a tease you are!" said his sister. "i should like to tell you, dear," she added, in a patronising tone. "come and sit down here, and tell me what you want." "it's what you want; don't forget that, polly, else she'll get her back up, and go off again," laughed her brother; but he was not sorry the embargo had been taken off their intercourse with the fisherman's family; for although he had had surreptitious dealings with boys sometimes, they had to be so watchful lest they should be discovered that the play was considerably hindered. now he understood that this advance on tiny's part was a direct concession from coomber himself, for he and the boys had long ago agreed to try and draw the little girl into some intimacy as the only way of breaking down the restrictions laid upon them. but tiny had proved obstinate. she had been asked again and again, but she had always returned the same answer: "daddy would let her some day, and then she would play with them." so harry hayes was perfectly aware that she had won the fisherman's consent at last, although no word had been said about it. when the girls were left to themselves, polly took up the picture and looked at it, then turned it over and read, "god is good to all: he loves both boys and girls." at this point tiny interrupted her by laying her hand on her arm, and saying eagerly: "are you quite sure that is what it says?" "why, don't you think i can read?" said polly, in a half-offended tone. but the subject was new to her, and so she was anxious to read further, and turned to the page again and read on. at the bottom was a line or two in smaller print, and polly read these longer words with a touch of pride: "jesus said, suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of god." "then this must be jesus, and these are the little children," concluded polly, as she turned over the paper to look at the picture again. the two girls sat and looked at it and talked about it for a few minutes, and then tiny said wistfully: "will you show me now how you make up them nice words?" "oh, it's easy enough if you know the letters; but you must learn the letters first," said polly; and she proceeded to tell tiny the name of each; and the little girl had the satisfaction of knowing now that she had remembered them quite correctly, and that g o d did spell god, as she had surmised. she was not long now in putting other words together; and before she went home she was able to spell out the first two lines of the printed page, for they were all easy words, and intended for beginners. what a triumph it was to tiny to be able to read out to the fisherman's family what she had learned on the sands that day. she was allowed to have the candle all to herself after supper, and they sat round the table looking at each other in wondering amazement as her little finger travelled along the page, and she spelt out the wonderful news, "'god is good to all: he loves both boys and girls.' it's true, dick, what i told you, ain't it?" she said, in a tone of delighted satisfaction. dick scratched his head, and looked round at his father, wondering what he would think or say. for a minute or two the fisherman smoked his pipe in silence. at length, taking it from his mouth, he said, in a slow, meditative fashion: "well, little 'un, i s'pose if it's printed that way it's true; and if it is, why i s'pose we've all got a share in that 'star of peace' we was talking about to-day." tiny did not quite follow his train of thought; but she nodded her head, and then proceeded to tell them what she had heard about the picture, and the conclusion she and polly had arrived at upon the subject--that jesus, the kind, loving man of the picture, had come to show them how kind god was to them. [illustration] chapter vi. bad times. winter around bermuda point was at all times a dreary season, and the only thing its few inhabitants could hope for was that its reign might be as short as possible. a fine, calm autumn was hailed as a special boon from heaven by the fisher-folk all round the coast, and more especially by the lonely dwellers at the point. a fine autumn enabled coomber to go out in his boat until the time for shooting wild fowl began, and the children could play on the sands, or gather samphire, instead of being penned up in the house half the time. but when the weather was wild and wet, and the salt marshes lay under water, that meant little food and much discomfort, frequent quarrels, and much bitterness to the fisherman's family. this autumn the weather was more than usually boisterous; and long before the usual time the old boat had to be drawn up on to the bank, for fear the waves should dash it to pieces. the fisherman sometimes went to fellness, on the chance of picking up a stray job, for it was only the state of his boat, and his anxiety to keep it together as long as possible, that prevented him braving the perils of the sea; and so he sometimes got the loan of another boat, or helped another fisherman with his; and then, rough though they might be, these fisher-folk were kind and helpful to each other, and if they could not afford to pay money for a job, they could pay for it in bread or flour, or potatoes, perhaps, and so they would generally find coomber something to do, that they might help him, without hurting him. but there was little work that could be done in such bad weather as this, and he knew it, and his proud, independent spirit could not brook to accept even a mouthful of bread that he had not earned; and so there were many weary days spent at home, or sauntering round the coast with his gun, on the look-out for a stray wild fowl. tiny often went to bed hungry, and woke up feeling faint and sick; and although she never forgot to say her prayers, she could not help thinking sometimes that god must have forgotten her. she read her paper to dick, and he and tom had both learned to spell out some of the words, and she read to herself again and again the divine assurance, "god is good to all: he loves both boys and girls;" but then, as dick said sometimes, bermuda point was such a long way from anywhere, and he might forget there were any boys and girls living there. when she was very hungry, and more than usually depressed, tiny thought dick must be right, but even then she would not admit such a thought to others. when she saw mrs. coomber in tears, because she had no food to prepare for her hungry children, she would steal up to her, pass her little arm round the poor woman's neck, and whisper, "god is good; he'll take care of us, mammy; he'll send us some supper, if he can't send us any dinner;" and the child's hopeful words often proved a true prophecy, for sometimes when coomber had been out all day without finding anything that could be called food, he would, when returning, manage to secure a wild duck, perhaps, or a couple of sea magpies, or a few young gulls. nothing came amiss to the young coombers at any time, and just now a tough stringy gull was a dainty morsel. it threatened to be an unusually hard and long winter, and at last mrs. coomber ventured to suggest that tiny should be taken to the poorhouse, at least until the spring, when she could come back again. "look at her poor little white face," said the woman, with her apron to her eyes; "i'm afraid she'll be ill soon, and then what can we do?" "time enough to talk about that when she is ill," said coomber, gruffly, as he took up his gun and went out. they were generally able to keep a good fire of the drift-wood and wreckage that was washed ashore, for unfortunately there was scarcely a week passed but some noble vessel came to grief on the perilous bar sands during the more boisterous weather. once, when they were at their wits' end for food, and bob had begged his mother to boil some samphire for supper, tiny was fortunate enough to discover an unopened cask which the sea had cast up the night before, and left high and dry behind the ridge of sandhills. she was not long fetching bob and the boys to see her treasure trove; all sorts of wild speculations passing through her mind as to what it could contain as she ran shouting-"bob! bob! dick! dick! come and see what i've found." [illustration: "'dick, dick, come and see what i've found.'" (_see page 96._)] the boys were not long in making their appearance, and bob fetched a hatchet, and soon broke open the cask; and oh! what joy for the starving children--it was full of ship biscuits! "oh, dick, didn't i tell you this morning god hadn't forgotten us?" said tiny, in a quavering voice, when bob announced what the cask contained. "oh, yes," said dick, "so you did;" but he was too hungry to think of anything but the biscuits now--too hungry even to shout his joy, as he would have done at another time. as soon as they could be got at, he handed one to tiny, and then tom and dick helped themselves, filling their pockets and munching them at the same time; but tiny, though she nibbled her biscuit as she went, ran at once to tell mrs. coomber of her wonderful discovery; and she, scarcely daring to believe that such good news could be true, ran out at once to see for herself, and met the boys, who confirmed tiny's tale. but she must see the cask for herself, and then she ate and filled her apron, and shed tears, and thanked god for this wonderful gift all at the same time. then she told the boys to come and fetch some baskets at once, to carry them home in, and she would sort them over, for some were soaked with sea-water, but others near the middle were quite dry. bob took a bagful and went in search of his father along the coast, and everybody was busy carrying or sorting or drying the biscuits, for they had to be secured before the next tide came in, or they might be washed away again. when coomber came home, bringing a couple of sea-gulls he had shot, he was fairly overcome at the sight of the biscuits. "daddy, it was god that sent 'em," said tiny, in an earnest, joyful whisper. the fisherman drew his sleeve across his eyes. "seems as though it must ha' been, deary," he said; "for how that cask ever came ashore without being broken up well-nigh beats me." "god didn't let it break, 'cos we wanted the biscuits," said tiny confidently; "yer see, daddy, he ain't forgot us, though bermuda point is a long way from anywhere." the biscuits lasted them for some time, for as the season advanced coomber was able to sell some of the wild ducks he shot, and so potatoes, and flour, and bread could be brought at fellness again. if the fisherman could only have believed that whisky was not as necessary as bread, they might have suffered less privation; but every time he got a little money for his wild fowl, the bottle had to be replenished, even though he took home but half the quantity of bread that was needed; and so tiny sometimes was heard to wish that god would always send them biscuits in a tub, and then daddy couldn't drink the stuff that made him so cross. mrs. coomber smiled and sighed as she heard tiny whisper this to dick. she, too, had often wished something similar--or, at least, that her husband could do without whisky. now, as the supply of wild fowl steadily increased, he came home more sullen than ever. his return from fellness grew to be a dread even to tiny at last; and she and dick used to creep off to bed just before the time he was expected to return, leaving bob and tom to bear the brunt of whatever storm might follow. he seldom noticed their absence, until one night, when, having drunk rather more than usual, he was very cross on coming in, and evidently on the look-out for something to make a quarrel over. "where's dick and the gal?" he said, as he looked round the little kitchen, after flinging himself into a chair. "they're gone to bed," said his wife, timidly, not venturing to look up from her work. "then tell 'em to get up." "i--i dunno whether it 'ud be good for tiny," faltered the poor woman; "she's got a cold now, and--and----" "are you going to call 'em up, or shall i go and lug 'em out of bed?" demanded the angry, tipsy man. "but, coomber," began his wife. "there, don't stand staring like that, but do as i tell you," interrupted the fisherman; "i won't have 'em go sneaking off to bed just as i come home. i heard that little 'un say one day she was afraid of me sometimes. afraid, indeed; i'll teach her to be afraid," he repeated, working himself into a passion over some maudlin recollection of the children's talk in the summer-time. his wife saw it would be of no use reasoning with him in his present mood, and so went to rouse the children without further parley. they were not asleep, and so were prepared for the summons, as they had overheard what had been said. "oh mammy, must i come?" said tiny, her teeth chattering with fear, as she slipped out of bed. "don't be afraid, deary--don't let him see you're frightened," whispered mrs. coomber; "slip your clothes on as quick as you can, and come and sing 'star of peace' to him; then he'll drop off to sleep, and you can come to bed again." "i will--i will try," said the child, trying to force back her tears and speak bravely. but in spite of all her efforts to be brave, and not look as though she was frightened, she crept into the kitchen looking cowed and half-bewildered with terror, and before she could utter a word of her song, coomber pounced upon her. "what do yer look like that for?" he demanded; "what business have you to be frightened of me?" tiny turned her white face towards him, and ventured to look up. "i--i----" "she's going to sing 'star of peace,'" interposed mrs. coomber; "let her come and sit over here by the fire." "you let her alone," roared her husband; "she's a-going to do what i tell her. come here," he called, in a still louder tone. tiny ventured a step nearer, but did not go close to him. "are you coming?" he roared again; then, stretching out his hand, he seized her by the arm, and dragged her towards him, giving her a violent shake as he did so. "there--now sing!" he commanded, placing her against his knee. the child stared at him with a blank, fascinated gaze. once he saw her lips move, but no sound came from them; and after waiting a minute he dashed her from him with all the strength of his mad fury. there was a shriek from mrs. coomber, and screams from the boys, but poor little tiny uttered no sound. they picked her up from where she had fallen, or rather had been thrown, and her face was covered with blood; but she uttered no groan--gave no sign of life. "oh, she's dead! she's dead!" wailed dick, bending over her as she lay in his mother's arms. the terrible sight had completely sobered coomber. "did i do it? did i do that?" he asked, in a changed voice. "why, yer know yer did," growled bob; "or leastways the whisky in yer did it. i've often thought you'd do for mother, or one of us; but i never thought yer'd lift yer hand agin a poor little 'un like that." coomber groaned, but made no reply. "hold your tongue, bob," commanded his mother; for she could see that her husband was sorry enough now for what he had done. "what's to be done, mother?" he asked, in a subdued voice; "surely, surely i haven't killed the child!" but mrs. coomber feared that he had, and it was this that paralysed all her faculties. "i don't know what to do," she said, helplessly, wiping away the blood that kept flowing from a deep gash on tiny's forehead. "couldn't you give her some water?" said dick, who did not know what else to suggest. coomber meekly fetched a cupful from the pan outside, and mrs. coomber dipped her apron in it, and bathed tiny's face; and in a minute or two dick saw, to his great delight, that she drew a faint, fluttering breath. coomber saw it too, and the relief was so great that he could not keep back his tears. "please god he'll spare us his little 'un, i'll never touch another drop of whisky," he sobbed, as he leaned over his wife's chair, and watched her bathe the still pallid face. "open the door, dick, and let her have a breath of fresh air; and don't stand too close," said his mother, as tiny drew another faint breath. the door was opened, and the boys stood anxiously aside, watching the faint, gasping breath, until at last tiny was able to swallow a little of the water; and then they would have closed round her again, but their mother kept them off. "would a drop o' milk do her good?" whispered coomber after a time; but she was sensible enough to recognise his voice, and shuddered visibly. he groaned as he saw it; but drew further back, so that she should not see him when she opened her eyes. "give me the sticking-plaster, dick," said his mother, when tiny had somewhat revived. mrs. coomber was used to cuts and wounds, and could strap them up as cleverly as a surgeon. it was not the sight of the ugly cut that had frightened her, but the death-like swoon, which she did not understand. "how about the milk, mother?" coomber ventured to ask, after tiny's forehead was strapped up and bandaged. again came that shudder of fear, and the little girl crept closer to the sheltering arms. "don't be frightened, deary; daddy won't hurt you now." "don't let him come," whispered tiny; but coomber heard the whisper, and it cut him to the heart, although he kept carefully in the background as he repeated his question. "would yer like a little milk, deary?" asked mrs. coomber. "there ain't no money to buy milk," said tiny, in a feeble, weary tone. but coomber crept round the back of the kitchen, so as to keep out of sight, took up the bottle of whisky he had brought home, and went out. he brought a jug of milk when he came back. "you can send for some more to-morrow, and as long as she wants it," he said, as he stood the jug on the table. [illustration] chapter vii. a tea meeting. tiny was very ill the next day--too ill to get up, or to notice what was passing around her. mrs. coomber, who had had very little experience of sickness, was very anxious when she saw tiny lying so quiet and lifeless-looking, the white bandage on her forehead making her poor little face look quite ghastly in its paleness. the fisherman had crept into the room before he went out, to look at her while she was asleep, and the sight had made his heart ache. "i never thought i could ha' been such a brute as to hurt a little 'un like that," he said, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, and speaking in a whisper to his wife. "it was the whisky," said his wife, by way of comforting him. but coomber would not accept even this poor comfort. "i was a fool to take so much," he said. "wus than a fool, for i knowed it made me savage as a bear; and yet i let it get the mastery of me. but it's the last, mother; i took the bottle to the farm last night, and they're going to let me have the value of it in milk for the little 'un, and please god she gets well again, it's no more whisky i'll touch." it was not easy for a man like coomber to make such a promise, and still more difficult to keep it. for the first few days, while tiny was very ill, it was not so hard to send bob and tom to fellness, with the teal and widgeon he had shot; but when she began to get better, and the craving for the drink made itself felt, then began the tug of war. during the first few days of the little girl's illness, the fisherman kept carefully out of her sight, though he longed to see her once more, and hear her say she had forgiven him the cruel blow he had dealt to her. tiny, too, longed for him to come and see her in the daytime; but as it grew dusk the longing passed away, and every night, as the hour drew near when he usually came back from fellness, a positive dread and terror of him seized her, and she would lie shivering and holding mrs. coomber's hand whenever she heard his voice in the kitchen. mrs. coomber tried to persuade her husband to go and see the child in the daytime; but he only shook his head. "she hates me, and i don't deserve to see her agin," he said, gloomily. he returned the same answer again and again, when pressed to go in and see her before he went out with his gun in the morning. at length, as he sat at breakfast one day, he was startled by tiny creeping up to him, just as she had slipped out of bed. "oh, daddy, why didn't you come to me?" she said, with a little gasping sob, throwing her arms round his neck. "my deary, my deary," he said, in a choking voice, gathering her in his arms, and kissing her, while the tears rolled down his weather-beaten face. "oh, daddy, don't you love me," said tiny; "that you didn't come to see me all these days?" "love you, my deary? ah, you may well ask that, after what i've done to yer; but it was just because i did love yer that i kept away from yer," he went on; "i thought you'd never want to see yer cruel old daddy any more; and as for me, why i'd punish myself by not trying to see yer, or get back your love. that's just how it was, deary," said the fisherman, as he looked tenderly at the little pallid face. "but, daddy, i love you, and i wanted you all the days," said tiny, nestling closer to him as she spoke. "bless you, deary, i believe you're one of god's own bairns, as well as a sailor's lass," said coomber. "i wanted you all the days, daddy; but--but--don't--come--at--night," she added, in a hesitating tone. "i know what you mean; mother's told me, little 'un," he said, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, and sighing. "i can't help it, daddy, i can't help it," said the little girl, with a sob. "well, i s'pose not; but you needn't be afraid now, you know. i've done with the bottle now; and it wasn't me you was afraid of, mother said, but the whisky." tiny nodded. "yes, that's it," she said; "and i shan't be afraid long if i know you don't have it now;" and from that time the little girl set herself strenuously to overcome the terror and dread that nightly crept over her; but still it was some time before she could endure coomber's presence after dusk. meanwhile pinching want was again making itself felt in the household. for some reason known only to themselves, the teal and widgeon did not come within range of the fisherman's gun just now; and sometimes, after a whole day spent in the punt, or among the salt marshes along the coast, only a few unsaleable old gulls would reward coomber's toil. they were not actually uneatable by those who were on the verge of starvation; but they were utterly unfit for a child like tiny, in her present weak, delicate condition; and again the question of sending her to the poorhouse until the spring was mooted by mrs. coomber. her husband did not refuse to discuss it this time when it was mentioned, and it was evident that he himself had thought of it already, for he said, with a groan-"it seems as though god wasn't going to let me keep the little 'un, though she's getting on a bit, for never have i had such a bad shooting season as this since i knocked the little 'un down. it seems hard, mother; what do you think?" but mrs. coomber did not know what to think; she only knew that poor little tiny was often hungry, although she never complained. they had eaten up all the store of biscuits by this time; and although dick and tom often spent hours wandering along the shore, in the hope of finding another wonderful treasure-trove, nothing had come of their wanderings beyond the usual harvest of drift wood that enabled them to keep a good fire in the kitchen all day. at length it was decided that coomber should take tiny to the poorhouse, and ask the authorities to keep her until this bitter winter was over; and then, when the spring came, and the boat could go out once more, he would fetch her home again. but it was not without many tears that this proposal was confided to tiny, the fisherman insisting--though he shrank from the task himself--that she should be told what they thought of doing. "she is a sailor's lass, and it's only fair to her," he said, as he left his wife to break the news to tiny. she was overwhelmed at the thought of being separated from those who had been so kind to her, and whom she had learned to love so tenderly, but with a mighty effort she choked back her tears, for she saw how grieved mrs. coomber was; though she could not help exclaiming: "oh! if god would only let me stay with you, and daddy, and dick!" her last words to dick before she started were in a whispered conference, in which she told him to pray to god every day to let her come back soon. "i will, i will!" said dick through his tears; "i'll say what you told me last night--i'll say it every day." and then coomber and tiny set out on their dreary walk to fellness, reaching it about the middle of the afternoon. bob and tom had let their old friends know that their father had given up the whisky, and now he, foolish man, felt half afraid and half ashamed to meet them; but he was obliged to go, for he wanted peters to go with him, and tell the workhouse people about the rescue of the little girl, for fear they should refuse to take her in unless his story was confirmed. coomber explained this to his friend in a rather roundabout fashion, for he had not found peters on the shore, as he had expected, and where he could have stated his errand in a few words. he had found instead that all the village was astir with the news of a tea-meeting, that was to take place that afternoon in the chapel, and that peters, who was "something of a methody," as coomber expressed it, had gone to help in the preparations. he was astonished to see coomber when he presented himself, and still more to hear the errand he had come upon. he scratched his head, and looked pityingly at the little girl, who held fast to coomber's hand. "well now, mate, i'm in a fix," he said, slowly, and pointing round the room; "i've got all these forms to move, and to fix up the tables for 'em by four o'clock; but if you'll stay and lend a hand, why, you and the little 'un 'll be welcome to stay to tea, i know; it's free to all the village to-day," he added, "and the more that come, the better we shall like it." coomber looked at tiny, and saw how wistfully her eyes rested on a pile of cakes that stood near; and that look decided him. "would you like to have some of it?" he said, with a faint smile. the little girl's face flushed with joy at the prospect of such a treat. "oh, daddy! if i could only take dick some, too," she said. both the men laughed, but peters said, "well, well, we'll see what we can do; come in here while daddy helps me with the forms;" and he led the way into a small room, where several of the fishermen's wives were cutting bread and butter. peters whispered a word to one of them, and she seated tiny by the fire, and gave her some bread and butter at once. when the tea was all ready, and the company began to arrive, coomber fetched tiny to sit with him, and the two had a bountiful tea, and such cake as the little girl had not tasted for a long time. but she would not eat much. she took what was given to her, but slipped most of it into coomber's pocket, that he might take it home to dick, for the little girl thought they would go on to the poorhouse as soon as tea was over. but while the tea-things were being cleared away, and they were preparing for the meeting that was to follow, the fisherman drew her aside, and whispered: "i do believe god has heard what you've been a-praying for, deary, for peters has heard of a job of work for me since i've been here." "oh, daddy! and we shall go home together again," exclaimed tiny, looking round for her bonnet at once. "yes, but not jest yet. there's to be some preaching or somethin', and--and--little 'un, i've been a bad man, and i dunno as god'll have anything to do wi' helping such a tough customer to be any better; but if he would--" and here coomber drew his sleeve across his eyes, and turned his head aside to hide his emotion. the little girl threw her arms round his neck, and drew his face close to hers. "oh, daddy, he will! he will!" she whispered, earnestly; "he loves you, and he's been waiting all this long time for you to love him; and you will, won't you, now, you know?" but there was no time for coomber to reply, for the people were taking their seats again, and peters touched him on the shoulder, motioning him to do the same. the two sat down, feeling too eager for shyness, or to notice that others were looking at them. a hymn was sung, and a prayer followed, and then coomber began to feel disappointed, for he was hungering to hear something that might set his doubts at rest. at length he heard the words that have brought help and gladness to so many souls: "god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." then followed a simple address, enlarging upon the text, and an exhortation to accept god's offer of salvation. "the lord jesus christ himself said: 'come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest,'" continued the speaker, "and in his name i beg each one of you to become reconciled to god. he is waiting: he is willing to receive each one of you." these were his closing words, and coomber, who had listened with eager, rapt attention, stayed only for the people to move towards the door, and then followed the speaker into the little vestry. "beg pardon, sir," he said, pausing at the door, "but 'tain't often as i gets the chance of hearing such words as i've heard from you to-night, and so i hopes you'll forgive me if i asks for a bit more. i'm a bad man. i begins to see it all now; but--but----" "my friend, if you feel that you are a sinner, then you are just one of those whom the lord jesus died to redeem. he came to seek and to save those who are lost--to redeem them from sin. he gave his life--dying upon the cross, a shameful, painful death--not, mark me, that they may continue in sin. to say we believe in god, and to live in sin, makes our belief of no effect. we must learn of christ, or he will have died in vain for us. we must learn of him, and he will help us to overcome our love of drink, our selfishness, and sullenness, and ill-temper;" for the gentleman knew something of coomber, and so particularised the sins he knew to be his easily besetting ones. "and you think he'd help me? you see, sir, he's done a deal for me lately, bad as i am," said coomber, twisting his hat in his hand. "help you! ah, that he will. if he gave his only son, what do you think he will withhold? 'what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent? if ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him.'" "and what are the good things that i'm to ask for," said coomber. "i know what the asking means; this little 'un here has taught me that praying is asking god; and though i ain't never done it afore, i'll begin now." "do, my man. ask that the holy spirit may be given you, to lead you, and teach you, and guide you into all truth. without his help you can do nothing; but, seeking his help, trusting in his guidance, you will be enabled to overcome every difficulty and obstacle, however hard it may be." "and you think god will forgive me all the past?" "my brother, christ died--he shed his precious blood, to wash away our sin, to set our conscience free from guilt, and to assure us beyond a doubt of the perfect love of god towards us." the words spoken fell into prepared soil, for coomber had been hungering and thirsting after righteousness, and he went home that night feeling that he had been fed. what a happy walk home that was for tiny and the fisherman! as he left the little chapel at fellness, a basket, well filled with the odds and ends left from the tea-meeting, had been handed to coomber to take home, and peters whispered, as he went out: "i've heard of another job for yer, so be along in good time in the morning, mate." to describe mrs. coomber's joy, when her husband walked in with tiny asleep in his arms, and also with the basket of bread and butter, would be impossible. "god has given us the little 'un back, mother," he said, placing the child in his wife's arms. "he's been good to me, better than i deserved, only the lord jesus christ has died for me, and that explains it all." his heart was full of joy and gratitude to-night, and he forgot his usual shyness, and told his wife of the good news he had heard at fellness, both for body and soul. "now, mother," he said, as he concluded, "you and i must both begin a new life. we must ask god to help us like this little 'un, and we must teach our boys to do the same. we owe it all to her," he added, as he kissed tiny, "for if she hadn't come among us, we might never have heard about god down here at bermuda point." [illustration] chapter viii. brighter days. the dreary winter came to an end at last, and with the first spring days there was a general bustle of preparation in the fisherman's family, for boat and nets alike required overhauling, and there would be a good deal of repairing to do before the old boat would be fit for further use. bob's face was fast losing its sullen, defiant, angry look, and he was whistling as merrily as a lark one morning, when he and coomber went to remove the tarpaulin that had been covered over the boat during the winter; but the whistling suddenly ceased when the boat was uncovered, for, with all their care, the winter's storms had worked sad havoc with the little craft. seams were starting, ribs were bulging, and there were gaping holes, that made coomber lift his hat and scratch his head in consternation. "this'll be a tough job, bob," he said. "aye, aye, dad, it will that," said the lad, carefully passing his finger down where one rib seemed to be almost rotten. a few months before coomber would have raved and blustered, and sworn it was all bob's fault, but since that tea-meeting at fellness he had been a changed man--old things had passed away, and all things had become new; and none felt this more than bob. it was a blessed change for him, and he had given up all thoughts of running away now, if the old boat could only be patched up and made serviceable. but it was a problem whether this could ever be done effectually enough to make it seaworthy. "if i'd only found out ten years ago that i could do better without the whisky than with it, we might ha' got a new boat afore this, bob," said the fisherman, with a sigh. "aye, aye, and had jack with us, too, dad," bob ventured to remark. he had not dared to mention his brother's name for years, but he had thought a good deal of him lately, wishing he could come home, and see the blessed change that had been wrought in his father. the old fisherman lifted his head, and there was a look of bitter anguish in his face, as he said: "hark ye, lad, i'd give all the days of my life to bring jack back. the thought of him is making yer mother an old woman afore her time, and i can't help it now; it's too late, too late;" and the old fisherman covered his face and groaned. "there now, father, ain't i heard you say it was never too late to repent?" "aye, lad, that you have, and the precious blood of christ can take away the guilt of our sin; but, mark me, not even god himself can do away with the consequences of sin. hard as they may be, and truly and bitterly as we may repent, the past can't be undone; and as we sow we must reap. poor jack! poor jack! if i could only know where he was. why, it's nigh on ten years since he went away, and never a storm comes but i'm thinking my boy may be in it, and wanting help." bob recalled what had passed on fellness sands the night they rescued tiny, and which had helped him often since to bear with his father's gruff, sullen ways and fierce outbursts of temper; but he would not say any more just now, only he thought that but for that tea-meeting his father would now be mourning the loss of two sons; for he had made up his mind to leave home when it was decided to take tiny to the poorhouse. they were working at the boat a few days after this, caulking, and plugging, and tarring, when tiny, who had been playing on the sandhills a little way off, came running up breathless with some news. [illustration: tiny and the old man. (_see page 130._)] "oh, daddy! there's a little ugly, old man over there, and he says my name is coomber. is it, daddy?" the fisherman lifted his hat and scratched his head, looking puzzled. strange to say, this question of the little girl's name had never suggested itself to anybody before, living as they did in this out-of-the-way spot. she was "tiny," or "deary," or "the little 'un," and no need had arisen for any other name; and so, after scratching his head for a minute, he said: "well, deary, if i'm your daddy, i s'pose your name is coomber. but who is the old man?" he asked; for it was not often that strangers were seen at bermuda point, even in summer-time. "i dunno, daddy; but he says he knowed my mother when she was a little gal like me." coomber dropped the tar-brush he was using, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. had somebody come to claim the child after all? he instinctively clutched her hand for a minute, but the next he told her to go home, while he went to speak to the stranger. he found a little, neatly-dressed old man seated on one of the sandhills, and without a word of preface he began: "you've come after my little gal, i s'pose?" the old man smiled. "what's your name, my man?" he said, taking out a pocket-book, and preparing to write. "coomber." "coomber!" exclaimed the old man, dropping his book in his surprise. "why, yes; what should it be?" said the fisherman. "didn't you tell my little tiny that you knew her name was coomber? but how you came to know----" "why, i never saw you before that i know of," interrupted the other, sharply; "so how do you suppose i should know your name? i told the child i knew her name was matilda coomber, for she is the very image of her mother when she was a girl, and she was my only daughter." "oh, sir, and you've come to fetch her!" gasped the fisherman. the stranger took out his snuff-box, and helped himself to a pinch. "well, i don't know so much about that," he said, cautiously; "i am her grandfather, and i thought, when i picked up that old newspaper the other day, and read about her being saved, i'd just like to come and have a look at her. i was pretty sure she was my tilly's little one, by the description of the silver medal she wore, for i'd given it to her mother just before she ran away to get married to that sailor coomber." "oh, sir, a sailor, and his name was coomber! where is he? what was he like?" asked the fisherman, eagerly. "he was drowned before his wife died; she never held up her head afterwards, the people tell me. i never saw her after she was married, and swore i'd never help her or hers; but when she was dying she wrote and told me she was leaving a little girl alone in the world, and had left directions for it to be brought to me after her death. with this letter she sent her own portrait, and that of her husband and child, begging me to keep them for the child until she grew up. a day or two after came another letter, saying she was dead, and a neighbour was coming from grimsby to london by ship, and would bring the child to me; but i never heard or saw anything of either, and concluded she was drowned, when, about a month ago, an old newspaper came in my way, and glancing over it, i saw the account of a little girl being saved from a wreck, and where she might be heard of. i went to the place, and they sent me here, and the minute i saw the child, i knew her for my tilly's." the old man had talked on, but coomber had comprehended very little of what was said. he stood looking half-dazed for a minute or two after the stranger had ceased speaking. at length he gathered his wits sufficiently to say: "have you got them pictures now?" "yes," said the old man, promptly, taking out his pocket-book as he spoke. "here they are; i took care to bring 'em with me;" and he brought out three photographs. coomber seized one instantly. "it is him! it is my jack!" he gasped. "oh, sir, tell me more about him." "i know nothing about him, i tell you," said the other, coldly; "i never saw or spoke to my daughter after she married him; but i'm willing to do something for the little child, seeing it was my girl's last wish." "the child," repeated coomber. "do you mean to say little tiny is my jack's child?" "well, yes, of course i do. what else could i mean?" replied the other. "then--then i'm her grandfather, and have as much right to her as you have," said the fisherman, quickly. the stranger shrugged his shoulders. "well, i s'pose you have," he said; "i'm not going to dispute it. i'm willing to do my duty by her. but mind, i'm not a rich man--not a rich man," he added. coomber was puzzled for a minute to know what he meant, and was about to say that he wanted no payment for keeping tiny; but the other lifted his hand in a commanding manner, and exclaimed: "now, hear me first. let me have my say, and then, perhaps, we can come to terms about the matter. you've got a wife, i s'pose, that can look after this child. i haven't; and if she came to me, i shouldn't know what to do with her. well now, that being the case, she'd better stay here--for the present at least; she's happy enough, i s'pose; and i'll pay you twenty pounds a year as my share towards her expenses." coomber was about to exclaim indignantly against this, and protest that he would accept no payment; but just then he caught sight of bob and the old boat, and the thought of what that money would enable him to do kept him silent a little longer. "well now," resumed the old man, "if that plan suits you, we'll come to business at once. you've had her about eighteen months now, so there's about thirty pounds due. you see i'm an honest man, and mean to do the just thing by her," he added. "thirty pounds!" repeated coomber, to whom such a sum seemed immense wealth. but the other mistook the exclamation for one of discontent, and so he said, quickly, "well now, i'll throw you ten pounds in, as i hear you were the one that saved her, and pay you the next six months in advance. that'll make it a round fifty; but i won't go a penny farther. now will that satisfy you?" satisfy him? coomber was debating with himself whether he ought to take a farthing, considering what a rich blessing the little girl had been to him. it was only the thought of the bitter winter they had just passed through, and that, if he could get a new boat, he could better provide for the child, that made him hesitate, lest in refusing it he should do tiny a wrong. at length, after a pause, during which he had silently lifted his heart in prayer to god, he said: "well, sir, for the little 'un's sake i'll take your offer. but, look you, i shall use this money as a loan that is to be returned; and as i can save it, i shall put it in the bank for her." the other shrugged his shoulders. "you can do as you like about that. i shall come and see the child sometimes, and----" "do, sir, do, god bless her! to think she's my jack's child!" interrupted coomber, drawing his sleeve across his eyes. "do you know, sir, where my boy went down?" he asked, in a tremulous voice. but the other shook his head. "i tell you i know nothing of my daughter after she married; but she sent me a box with some letters and these portraits, and some other odds and ends, to be kept for her little matilda. i'll send you them if you like;" and the old man rose as he spoke. "can you go with me to fellness now, and settle this business about the money?" he added. "but don't you want to see tiny?" exclaimed coomber, who could not understand his willingness to give up his claim to the child. "i have seen her. we had a long talk here before you came. you may tell her that her grandfather west will come and see her sometimes. and now, if you'll follow me as quickly as you can to the village, we'll settle this business;" and as he spoke, mr. west turned towards the road, leaving coomber still half-dazed with astonishment. "bob, bob," he called at last, "i've got to go to the village. a strange thing has happened here to-day, and i want to get my wits a bit together before i tell your mother. but you needn't do much to the boat till i come back, for it may be we shall have a new one after all." bob looked up in his father's face, speechless with surprise. he spoke of having a new boat as though it was a very sad business. but his next words explained it. "i've heard of jack," he said; "no storms will trouble him again;" and then the fisherman burst forth into heart-breaking sobs and groans, and bob shed a few tears, although he felt heartily ashamed of them. "now go back, bob, and tell your mother i've gone to fellness; and if i ain't home by five o'clock, you come and meet me, for i shall have some money to carry--almost a fortune, bob." having heard so much, bob wanted to hear more, and so walked with his father for the first mile along the road, listening to the strange tale concerning tiny. then he went back, and told the news to the astonished group at home; and so, before coomber returned, his wife had got over the first outburst of grief for the death of her son, and she and bob had had time to talk calmly over the whole matter. they had decided that the money must be used in such a way as would give the little girl the greatest benefit from it, and that she must go to school, if possible. "now, if dad could buy a share in one of the bigger boats where he and i could work, wouldn't it be better than buying a little one for ourselves?" suggested bob; "then we could go and live at fellness, and tiny could go to school--sunday-school as well as week-day." "and dick, too," put in tiny. "yes, and we should all go to god's house on sunday," said mrs. coomber, drying her eyes. strange to say, a similar project had been suggested to coomber by his old friend peters, who knew a man who wanted to sell his share in one of the large fishing-boats, and was asking forty pounds for it. "that will leave us ten pounds, mother, to buy the children some new clothes, and take us to fellness. what do you say to it now?" asked her husband, after they had talked it over. "why, it seems too good to be true," said the poor woman, through her tears. "but oh! if only poor jack was here!" she sighed. her husband shook his head, and was silent for a minute or two; but at length he said: "god has been very good to us when we had no thought of him. i always knew the little 'un must be a sailor's lass, but to think that she should be our jack's own child is wonderful. the old gentleman had made quite sure of it before he came here--he wouldn't part with his money unless he'd been sure, i know; and now she's ours, just as much as dick and bob is. and we'll take good care of her, god bless her, and him for sending her to us." * * * * * the rest of my story is soon told. the fisherman and his family removed to fellness, and brighter days dawned for them than they had ever hoped to see. when the box arrived from mr. west, containing the letter and papers relating to the latter years of their son's life, they found that he had become a true christian through his wife's influence. he had also learned to read and write; and in the last letter sent to his wife before his death, he told her he meant to go and see his parents as soon as he returned from that voyage. alas! he never did return; but the "little lass," of whom he spoke so lovingly, became god's messenger to his old home, and the joy and comfort of his parents' hearts. printed by cooke & halsted, the moorfields press, london, e.c. the drama a quarterly review of dramatic literature no. 8 november 1912 the good hope. a drama of the sea in four acts. by herman heijermans, jr. translated by harriet gampert higgins. the plays of herman heijermans. to those content with convenient superficialities the plays of a dramatist such as heijermans are easy of definition. he is dismissed as "a realistic writer," "a playwright of the naturalistic school," a follower of ibsen, or hauptmann, or tolstoy, or zola. even then, perhaps, the definitions are not exhausted. they spring from the encyclopedia of commonplaces, and are as chaotic as the minds of their authors. there is the adjective "meticulous," for example,--invaluable to critics. and "morbid,"--equally indispensable, in the form of "morbid psychology." "photographic" and "kinematographic" must not be forgotten; the latter an almost brand-new weapon of offence. for the rest, "grey," "faithful," "squalid" or "lifelike" will serve their turn, according to the critic's point of view. in phrases such as these we hear the echoes of a controversy now a generation old; a controversy dating back to the "free theatres" of the 1890 period in paris, berlin and london, the first performances of ibsen's "ghosts," and the early plays of hauptmann and strindberg. then the issues between realist and philistine were sharply defined; the very terms were mutually exclusive. to be modern, to be "free," was to be an ibsenite, an apostle of moral indignation, an author or playgoer burning to lay bare social hypocrisies and shams; not merely pour épater le bourgeois, but in order to assert the great truths of actual life, so recently discovered by the stage. it mattered little that ibsenites owed their existence to their misunderstanding of ibsen. he had supplied them with an essential war cry. the old domination of insincere sentiment and false romance in the theatre was indefensible and insupportable. all the enthusiasm of dramatic reformers was perforce directed to the advance of the new realistic movement. hence arose a battle of epithets between the two camps, with "antiquated," "conventional," "sentimental," "romantic" on the one hand, and "vulgar," "dreary," "indecent," "noisome" on the other. in anglo-saxon countries, naturally enough, the issue was made one of morality rather than artistic method. ibsen's views on marriage were suspect, and the whole dramatic movement lay in quarantine. indeed, realism in literature came to be regarded as an unsettling tendency, emanating from the continent, and directed against all british institutions from property to religion. the division of opinion may be studied in historical documents such as the criticisms of the london press on the first english performance of "hedda gabler," and the early prefaces of bernard shaw; the one side tilting at realism, the other at romance;--both, alas, the most shifty of windmills where morality is concerned. the provocative cry of "naturalism," raised by the newer dramatists and their supporters, was responsible for half the trouble. a naturalist, in good english usage, is taken to be a professor with a butterfly net or an inquirer into the lower forms of pond life; and there is a good deal to be said for the analogy as applied to the author of realistic literature. pins and chloroform may be his implements of tragedy; his coldly scientific method gives point to the comparison. undoubtedly the "naturalistic drama" suggested probable inhumanity and possible horror. in any case it clearly offered no hope of an enjoyable evening, and was condemned from the first to be unpopular. so much for the misconception encouraged by a purely journalistic phrase. useless to maintain that the older dramatists, from robertson and dumas fils to sardou, held a monopoly of the milk of human kindness, while ibsen, hauptmann, tolstoy and strindberg wallowed in mere brutal, original sin. the alleged "naturalism" of the latter belied its name. it ranged from revolutionary utopianism to the creation of most unnatural giants,--stage characters removed from the average of everyday life by their own distinction. indeed, the differences between the old school and the new were as nothing compared with the intellectual gulf between, say, strindberg and tolstoy. setting out from the common ground of external approximation to life, the dramatists of the period soon diverged upon individual paths. hauptmann passed from the vivid and revolutionary "weavers" to the mythology of "hannele" and the "sunken bell," and the simple domestic drama of "fuhrmann henschel" and "rose bernd." tolstoy became a preacher; strindberg a swedenborgian mystic. of the early playwrights of the french théâtre libre, courteline and ancey, practised the comédie rosse, or brutal comedy, until paris, tired of the uncouth novelty, turned to the more amiable and no less natural work of capus and donnay. brieux devoted himself to the composition of dramatic tracts. bernard shaw, after protesting that he "could none other" than dramatize slum landlords and rent collectors in "widowers' houses," found readier targets for his wit in bishops, professors of greek and millionaires. nature, in fact, proved too strong for naturalism. no formula could embrace all the individual playwrights of that stormy time. the most catholic of "schools" could not hold them. formulas, however, die hard; and it is still necessary to free heijermans from the "naturalistic" label so conveniently attached in 1890 to works like tolstoy's "power of darkness," hauptmann's vor sonnenaufgang and zola's "therèse raquin." all that his plays have in common with theirs is a faithful observation of life, and more particularly of life among the common people. moreover, he belongs to a newer generation. he had written several short pieces (notably ahasuerus and 'n jodenstreek?) in 1893 and 1894, but "the ghetto" (1899) was his first important play. this three-act tragedy of the jewish quarter in a dutch city has been published in an english adaptation which woefully misrepresents the original, and i should rather refer readers to a german translation (berlin, fleische) revised by heijermans himself. like most early work, the play did not satisfy its author, and several versions exist. the story is simple enough. rafael, the son of an old jewish merchant, has an intrigue with the gentile maidservant, rose. his father, sachel, lives in an atmosphere of mistrust, hard dealing, thievery; a patriarch with all the immemorial wrongs of the ghetto upon his shoulders, and all the racial instinct to preserve property, family and religion from contact with "strange people." he is blind, but in the night he has heard the lovers' footsteps in the house. rose has lied to him; rafael, as usual, is neglecting his business for gentile companions. so the play opens. after some bargaining over the dowry, a marriage is arranged for rafael with the daughter of another merchant. the authority of the rabbi is called in, but rafael refuses. he is a freethinker; in the ghetto, but not of it. "oh, these little rooms of yours,--these hot, stifling chambers of despair, where no gust of wind penetrates, where the green of the leaves grows yellow, where the breath chokes and the soul withers! no, let me speak, rabbi haeser! now i am the priest; i, who am no jew and no christian, who feel god in the sunlight, in the summer fragrance, in the gleam of the water and the flowers upon my mother's grave ... i have pity for you, for your mean existence, for your ghettos and your little false gods--for the true god is yet to come, the god of the new community; the commonwealth without gods, without baseness, without slaves!" sachel is blamed for allowing this open rupture to come about. it is better to pay the girl off quietly and have done with her, argue the other jews. every woman has her price--and especially every gentile woman. a hundred gulden--perhaps two hundred if she is obstinate--will settle the matter. the money is offered, but rose is not to be bought. she has promised to go away with rafael as his wife. he has gone out, but he will return for her. the family tell her that the money is offered with his consent; that he is tired of her and has left home for good. but she is unmoved. she has learned to mistrust the word of the jews; she will only believe their sacred oath. at last old sachel swears by the roll of the commandments that his son will not return. in despair, rose throws herself into the canal and is drowned. rafael comes too late to save her. the god of the jews has taken his revenge. the play is perhaps a little naïve and crudely imagined, but it has all the essential characteristics of heijermans' later work; the intense humanitarian feeling, the burning rhetoric, the frankly partisan denunciation of society. indeed, it could not be otherwise. in dealing with such a case of bigotry and racial intolerance, it is idle for a playwright to hold the scales with abstract justice. at most he can only humanise the tragedy by humanising the villains of his piece, and showing them driven into cruelty by traditional forces beyond their control. that is the part of the "ankläger," the social prophet and public prosecutor; and it is the part which heijermans, above all others, has filled in the newer dramatic movement. in het pantser ("the coat of mail") his subject is the life of a dutch garrison town. "the coat of mail" is militarism; the creed of the governing caste. and the setting is peculiarly apt for the presentation of a social issue. in a small country such as holland military patriotism may be strong, but it is tempered by the knowledge that the country only exists by the tolerance, or the diplomatic agreement, of more powerful neighbours, and that in case of war it could do no more than sacrifice an army to the invader. to the philosophic workman, then, well read in revolutionary literature from marx to kropotkin, the standing army presents itself simply as a capitalist tool, a bulwark of the employing class against trade unionism. the industrial struggle is uncomplicated by sentimentality. patriotic stampedes to the conservative side are unknown. social democracy is strong. strikes are frequent, and the protection of "blackleg" labourers is in the hands of the garrison. that is the theme of this "romantic military play." mari, a second lieutenant, refuses to serve on strike duty. he is a weak but sincere idealist; his head full of humanitarian enthusiasm, his rooms stocked with anti-militarist pamphlets. he will leave the army rather than order his men to fire on the factory workers. around him stand the members of the military caste, linked together by tradition and family relationship. his father is a colonel in the same regiment; the father of his fiancée, martha, is commanding officer. one friend he has: an army doctor named berens, who has infected himself with cancer serum in attempting to discover a cure for the disease, and passes for a drunkard because he keeps the symptoms in check by alcohol. here a parallel is drawn between military bravery and the civilian courage of the scientist. mari is put under arrest, but the affair is kept secret in order to avoid a scandal. he can only be reinstated by full withdrawal and apology. martha comes to him and implores him to withdraw. the strike is thought to be over. he can plead the excitement of the moment in excuse, and the matter will be settled honorably. he gives way and apologises. a friendly discussion of the point with his superior officers is interrupted by a volley in the street outside. the troops have fired upon the mob, and the son of the shoemaker over the way has been shot. mari sends in his papers; but a newspaper has published the facts of the case, and he is met with the disgrace of immediate dismissal from the army. this does not suit martha. she must marry a soldier; civilian life with a dismissed lieutenant was not in the bond. so mari suffers another disillusionment, and the end of the play sees him setting out from home, while the old shoemaker is left to lament for his son. and the sum total of it all? a warm heart, a weakness for rhetoric, and--a study in vacillation. in ora et labora heijermans is less rhetorical; rather, one suspects, for lack of a mouthpiece. his peasants bear their fate, if not in silence, with almost inarticulate resignation. they are too hungry to waste words. moreover, there is no visible enemy to denounce, no coat of mail, no racial prejudice, no insatiate capitalism. winter is the villain of the piece. this is indeed naturalism, in the literal sense; humanity devoured by nature. everything is frost-bound: the canal, the soil, the very cattle. the barges are idle. there is no work and no warmth. when the last cow upon the farm dies of disease, its throat is cut so that it can be sold to the butcher. all hopes are centred in the father of the family, who is to sell the carcase in the town; but he spends the money and returns home drunk. as a last resort, his son eelke enlists in the army for six years' colonial service, leaving sytske, the girl he was about to marry. his advance pay buys fuel and food, but the lovers part with a hopeless quarrel, and the old peasants are left wrangling over the money he has brought. allerzielen (1906) is a later work. a village pastor finds a woman in a state of collapse upon his threshold. he takes her in, and she gives birth to a child. she is a stranger in the district, rita by name. the child is sent into the village to be nursed, while the pastor gives up his own room to the mother. she recovers slowly, and meanwhile the peasants set their tongues to work upon the scandal. the child is discovered to be illegitimate. a good village housewife is suckling a bastard. the pastor is housing an outcast, and shows no sign of sending her about her business. the neighbouring clergy are perturbed. dimly and distantly the bishop is said to be considering the facts.... amid alarums and excursions the affair pursues its course. the village passes from astonishment to ribaldry, from ribaldry to stone-throwing. the pastor speaks gently of christian charity and souls to be saved, but fails to appease his parishioners. they are hot upon the scent in a heresy-hunt. if they could see within the parsonage walls, they would yelp still louder. for rita proves to be an unblushing hedonist. no prayers for her, when the birth-pangs are once over; no tears, no repentance. she sings gaily in her room while the pastors argue about duty and morals. she feels "heavenly." she invades the study to enjoy a view of sunlight, clouds and sea. she finds the waves more musical than the wheezing of the church organ. if only the child were with her, her happiness would be complete. but the child is neglected by its foster mother. it sickens and dies. the pastor is driven from his church by the bishop, and leaves the broken windows of the parsonage to his successor. rita and he are both homeless now. and then the child's father comes,--another hedonist. the child is dead, but life remains. its body lies in unconsecrated ground, but the vows of love are renewed at the graveside. the church can only crush its own slaves. all roads are open to the spirits of the free. the pastor can only offer a hopeless "farewell" as the two set out upon their way. but rita calls after, "no,--no! you will come over to us." it matters nothing that this gospel of life has often been preached. heijermans has caught the spirit of it as well as the letter. his characters say and do nothing particularly original; nothing that would even pass for originality by reason of its manner. he works in vivid contrasts, without a shade of paradox. he figures the opposed forces of reaction and revolution in religion, in statecraft, in economics, in all human relationships, with a simplicity of mind which would draw a smile from the forever up-to-date "intellectual." reaction is a devilish superstition; revolution a prophetic angel pointing the way to the promised land. the one is false, the other true. there is no disputing the point, since truth and falsehood are absolute terms. perhaps the secret is that heijermans never tires of his own philosophy. he is content to see it firmly planted on the ground; he does not demand that it should walk the tight-rope or turn somersaults as an intellectual exercise. he has accepted a view of life which some call materialistic, and others positivist, or scientific, or humanitarian; but for him it is simply humane,--founded upon social justice and human need. a philosophy, however, does not make a dramatist. in the plays i have already described heijermans shows his power of translating the world-struggle of thought into the dramatic clash of will, but it is upon "the good hope" (op hoop van zegen) that his reputation chiefly depends. he chooses a great subject; not merely the conflict of shipowners and fishermen in the struggle for existence, but the sea-faring life and the ocean itself. truly "a sea-piece"; tempestuous, powerful. one can hear the breaking of the waves. from the opening scene, with the old men's tale of sharks, to the night of the storm in the third act, when the women and children huddle in kneirtje's cottage for shelter, the story is always the same. the sea is the symbol of fate. it takes a father here, a brother there. it seizes geert and barend alike; the one going aboard carelessly, the other screaming resistance. sometimes it plays with its victims on shore, making no sign, leaving months of hope to end in despair. in a more merciful mood it sends children running through the village to cry "'n ball op! 'n ball op!" as an overdue ship is signalled from the coastguard tower. and there an echo of the sea-ballad now and again; when raps are heard upon the door at the height of the storm, or a flapping curtain blows out the lamp, or a pallid face is seen at the window.... in sheer force of theatrical construction "the good hope" is still more striking. there are great moments, finely conceived. the play is full of natural rather than violent coincidence. barend has always feared death by drowning, and he makes his first and last voyage in a leaky trawler. his father sank in a wreck, and it is his mother, unable to maintain the household, who persuades him to go. she fears the disgrace of his refusal after the papers are signed, but he is dragged aboard by the harbour police. his brother geert sets out proudly enough, singing the marseillaise and preaching rebellion; but he sinks far away, impotent, unheard, and leaves his sweetheart to bear a fatherless child. old cobus can only reflect, "we take the fishes, and god takes us." that is perhaps the most dramatic thread of all,--the parallel of fate. the struggle for existence on land drives men to the fishing-boats and the dogger bank. from the minnows to leviathan, there is no escape. "we take the fishes, and god takes us." a gale of wind and rain whistles through the play, sweeping the decks of life, tossing men out into the unknown. let us turn to the social standpoint. the ship-owner, bos, is frankly a villain. he knows "the good hope" is unseaworthy, but he allows her to sail. true, the warning comes from a drunken ship's carpenter, but he understands the risks. business is business. the ship is well insured.... it is implied, then, that shipowners are unscrupulous scoundrels, and fishermen their unhappy victims. here is a bias which makes the actual tragedy no more impressive. good ships, as well as bad, may perish in a storm. nature is cruel enough without the help of man. the problem of the big fish and the little fish is one of size, not of morality. even sharks may possibly rejoice in an amiable temperament. it can only be said that heijermans has here chosen the right motive for his own particular type of drama. his sympathy is with the fishermen. he knows that, humanly speaking, in every conflict between employers and employed, the men are right and the masters wrong. impossible to redress the balance by individual virtue or kindliness. the masters stand for the exploiting system; for capital, for insurance, for power, for law and order and possession. their risks are less and their temptations greater. even from the standpoint of abstract justice, a dishonest employer may fairly be set against a drunken labourer or a gaol-bird fisherman. the one is no less natural than the other. but heijermans goes beyond all finicking considerations of this sort. he seeks to destroy and rebuild, not to repair or adjust. he avoids mere naturalism; the "conscientious transcription of all the visible and repetition of all the audible" is not for him. and here he is undoubtedly justified, not only by his own experience, but by that of other dramatists. there was no inspiration in the movement towards mere actuality on the stage. it sickened of its own surfeit of "life." its accumulated squalor became intolerable. it was choked by its own irrelevance, circumscribed by its own narrowness. for naturalism is like a prison courtyard; it offers only two ways of escape. one is the poet's upward flight, the other the revolutionist's battering-ram. heijermans has chosen his own weapon, and used it well. he has given us "the good hope," not as a mere pitiful study in disillusionment, but as a tragic symbol of human effort in the conquest of despair. ashley dukes. the good hope. a drama of the sea in four acts. by herman heijermans, jr. translated by harriet gampert higgins. persons. kneirtje, a fisherman's widow. geert } barend } her sons. jo, her niece. cobus, her brother. daantje, from the old men's home. clemens bos, a ship owner. clementine, his daughter. mathilde, his wife. simon, a ship carpenter's assistant. marietje, his daughter. mees, marietje's betrothed. kaps, a bookkeeper. saart, a fisherman's widow. truus, a fisherman's wife. jelle, a beggar. first policeman. second policeman. the drama is laid in a north sea fishing village. copyright 1912 by the dramatic publishing company. the good hope a drama of the sea in four acts. by herman heijermans, jr. act i. [kneirtje's home, a poor living-room. at the left, two wall bedsteads and a door; to the right, against the wall, a chest of drawers with holy images, vases and photographs. a chimney fireplace nearer front. at the back wall, near right corner, a wicket leading to the cooking shed; at left against the wall a cupboard; a cage with dove; window with flower pots, left of center; in back wall right of center a door overlooking a narrow cobblestone roadway backed by a view of beach with sea in middle distance and horizon. through the window to the left is seen the red tiled lower corner of roof of a cottage. time, noon.] clementine. [sketch book on her knee.] now, then! cobus! cobus. [who poses, awakes with a start, smiles.] he-he-he! i wasn't asleep--no, no-clem. head this way--still more--what ails you now? you were sitting so natural. hand on the knee again. cobus. tja--when you sit still so long--you get stiff. clem. [impatiently.] please! please! stop chewing. cob. i haven't any chew. look. clem. then keep your mouth shut. daantje. [entering by the cooking shed.] good day. clem. good day. take a walk around the corner. daan. no, miss--time's up. [looking at sketch.] it don't look like him yet. clem. [smiling.] daan. [shifting his spectacles.] you see--if i may take the liberty, miss--his chin sets different--and his eyes don't suit me--but his nose--that's him--and--and--his necktie, that's mighty natural--i'd swear to that anywhere. clem. indeed. daan. and the bedstead with the curtains--that's fine. now, miss, don't you think you could use me? clem. perhaps. hand higher--keep your mouth still. cob. that's easy said--but when y'r used to chewing and ain't allowed to--then you can't hold your lips still--what do you say, daantje? daan. i say time's up. we eat at four and the matron is strict. clem. that will be necessary with you old fellows. daan. peh! we've a lot to bring in, haven't we? an old man's home is a jail--scoldings with your feed--as if y'r a beggar. coffee this morning like the bottom of the rain barrel--and peas as hard as y'r corns. clem. if i were in your place--keep your mouth still--i'd thank god my old age was provided for. cob. tja--tja--i don't want to blaspheme, but-daan. thank god?--not me--sailed from my tenth year--voyages--more than you could count--suffered shipwreck--starvation--lost two sons at sea--no--no. i say the matron is a beast--i'd like to slap her jaw. clem. that will do! this is no dive. daan. i know that, but it makes your gorge rise. i wasn't allowed to go out last week because, begging your pardon, i missed and spat beside the sand box. now i ask, would you spit beside a box on purpose? an old man's home is a jail--and when they've shut you up, in one of them, decent, they're rid of you. wish the sharks had eaten me before i quit sailing. cob. [giggling.] he! he! he! man, the sharks wouldn't eat you--you were too tough for them. clem. keep your lips still! cob. tja, tja. daan. sharks not like me--they'll swallow a corpse. peh! i saw old willem bitten in two till the blood spouted on high. and he was a thin man. clem. was old willem eaten by a shark? daan. by one? by six. quick as he fell overboard they grabbed him. the water was red. clem. hey! how frightful. and yet--i'd rather like to see a thing like that. daan. like to see it! we had to. clem. did he scream? daan. did he scream! cob. tja, wouldn't you if you felt the teeth in your flesh? he--hehe! [sound of a fiddle is heard outside. cobus sways in his chair in time to the tune.] ta da da de--da da da-clem. [hastily closing the sketch book.] there then! [rises.] tomorrow you sit still--you hear! cob. [stretching himself.] all stiff! [dances, snapping his fingers, his knees wabbling.] ta de da da--da-da-da. daan. [at the window.] psst! nobody home. jelle. [playing at window outside.] if you please. daan. nobody home. jelle. i come regular once a week. daan. they have gone to the harbor. clem. [throws a coin out of the window.] there! [playing stops.] jelle. thank you. [searches for the coin.] cob. behind that stone, stupid. daan. no; more that way. clem. i threw it out that way. hey! what a donkey! is he near-sighted? cob. he's got only half an eye--and with half an eye you don't see much. [to jelle.] behind you! jelle. i don't see anything. daan. [barend appears at door.] psst! hey! barend, you help him---clem. there is a ten-cent piece out there. barend. [basket of driftwood on his back.] give it to 'im in his paws then. [enters.] [throws down basket with a thud.] here! cob. did you hear that impudent boy? clem. say there, big ape, were you speaking to me? bar. [shy and embarrassed.] no, miss. i did not know you were there, i thought---cob. what right had you to think--better be thinking of going to sea again to earn your mother's bread. bar. that's none of your business. cob. just hear his insolence to me--when he's too bashful to open his mouth to others. [taunting.] i'm not afraid--he-he-he!--no, i don't get the belly ache when i must go to sea--he-he-he! daan. come along now. it's struck four. clem. ten o'clock tomorrow, cobus. daan. he can't do it, miss, we must pull weeds in the court yard. cob. yes, we must scratch the stones. clem. tomorrow afternoon, then. cob. tja! i'll be here, then. good day, miss. [to barend.] good day, pudding breeches. clem. [pinning on her hat.] he teases you, doesn't he? bar. [laughing bashfully.] yes, miss. clem. been out searching the beach? [he nods embarrassed.] found much? bar. no, it was ebb last night--and--and--[gets stuck.] clem. are you really afraid to go to sea, silly boy? [he nods, laughing.] they all go. bar. [dully.] yes, they all go. clem. a man must not be afraid---bar. no, a man must not be afraid. clem. well, then? bar. [timidly.] i'd rather stay on shore. clem. i won't force you to go--how old are you? bar. rejected for the army last month. clem. rejected? bar. for my--for my--i don't know why, but i was rejected. clem. [laughing.] that's lucky--a soldier that's afraid! bar. [flaring up quickly.] i'm not afraid on land--let them come at me--i'll soon stick a knife through their ribs! clem. fine! bar. [again lapsing into embarrassment.] beg pardon, miss. [the soft tooting of a steamboat whistle is heard.] that's the anna--there's a corpse on board---clem. another one dead? bar. the flag hung half-mast. clem. tu-tu-tu-tu--the second this week. first, the agatha maria---bar. no, 'twas the charlotte. clem. oh, yes! the agatha was last week--do they know who? [he shakes his head.] haven't you any curiosity? bar. ach--you get used to it--and none of our family are aboard. [embarrassed silence.] father can't--hendrick can't--josef can't--you know about them--and--and--geert--he's still under arrest. clem. yes, he's brought disgrace on all of you. bar. disgrace--disgrace---clem. when is he free? bar. i don't know. clem. you don't know? bar. they gave him six months--but they deduct the time before trial--we don't know how long that was, so we can't tell. kneirtje. [through the window.] good day, miss. clem. good day. kneir. how did the chickens get out? do look at that rooster! get out, you salamander! kischt! jo! jo! bar. let them alone. they'll go of themselves. kneir. [entering the room.] that's an endless devilment, miss. [to barend.] come, you, stick out your paws. must we have another row with ari? bar. then we'll have a row. [goes off indifferently, chases away the chickens, outside.] kneir. then we'll--such a lazy boy, i wish he'd never been born--sponger!--are you going so soon, miss? clem. i am curious to know what's happened on the anna. kneir. yes--i was on the way there--but it takes so long--and i've had my fill of waiting on the pier--if that pier could only talk. have you finished my brother's portrait? clem. tomorrow. i want to make a drawing of barend also--just as he came in with the basket on his shoulders. kneir. barend? well--all the same to me. clem. he doesn't seem to get much petting around here. kneir. [annoyed.] pet him! i should say not! the sooner i get rid of him, the better! [through the window.] chase them away! kischt! kischt! bar. [outside.] all that yelling makes the rooster afraid. kneir. afraid! he takes after you, then! kischt! clem. hahaha! hahaha! say, he's enjoying himself there on ari's roof. jo. [coming through the door at left. brown apron--gold head pieces on the black band around her head.] good day. kneir. the chickens are out again! the rooster is sitting on ari's roof. jo. [laughing merrily.] hahaha! he's not going to lay eggs there! kneir. [crossly.] hear her talk! she knows well enough we almost came to blows with ari because the hens walked in his potato patch. jo. i let them out myself, old cross patch--truus dug their potatoes yesterday. kneir. why didn't you say so then? jo. what am i doing now? oh, miss--she would die if she couldn't grumble; she even keeps it up in her sleep. last night she swore out loud in her dreams. hahaha! never mind! scold all you like; you're a good old mother just the same. [to barend, who enters the room.] ach, you poor thing! is the rooster setting on the roof? and does he refuse to come down? bar. you quit that now! jo. i'll wager if you pet the hens he will come down of himself from jealousy. hahaha! he looks pale with fear. clem. now, now. jo. say, aunt, you should make a baker of him. his little bare feet in the rye flour. hahaha! bar. you can all----[goes angrily off at left.] jo. [calling after him.] the poor little fellow! clem. now, stop teasing him. are you digging potatoes? jo. tja; since four o'clock this morning. nothing--aunt--all rotten. kneir. we poor people are surely cursed--rain--rain--the crops had to rot--they couldn't be saved--and so we go into the winter--the cruel winter--ach,--ach,--ach! jo. there! you're worrying again. come, mother, laugh. am i ever sad? geert may return at any moment. kneir. geert--and what then? jo. what then? then--then--then, nothing! cheer up! you don't add to your potatoes by fretting and grumbling. i have to talk like this all day to keep up her spirits--see, i caught a rabbit! clem. in a trap? jo. as neat as you please. the rascal was living on our poverty--the trap went snap as i was digging. a fat one--forty cents at the least. clem. that came easy--i must go now. bos. [at door.] hello! are you going to stay all day--may i come in? kneir. [friendly manner.] of course you may, meneer; come in, meneer. bos. my paws are dirty, children. kneir. that's nothing. a little dry sand doesn't matter--will you sit down? bos. glad to do so--yes, kneir, my girl, we're getting older every day--good day, little niece. jo. good day, meneer. [points, laughing, to her hands.] you see---bos. have you put on gloves for the dance? jo. [nods saucily.] the hornpipe and the highland fling, hey? bos. hahaha! saucy black eye. [to clementine.] come, let me have a look. clem. [petulantly.] no, you don't understand it, anyway. bos. oh, thanks!--you educate a daughter. have her take drawing lessons, but must not ask to see--come! don't be so childish! clem. [with spoiled petulance.] no. when it is finished. bos. just one look. clem. hey, pa, don't bother me. bos. another scolding, ha ha ha! [barend enters.] bar. [bashfully.] good day, meneer. bos. well, barend, you come as if you were called. bar. [surprised laugh.] i? bos. we need you, my boy. bar. yes, meneer. bos. the deuce! how you have grown. bar. yes, meneer. bos. you're quite a man, now--how long have you been out of a job? bar. [shyly.] nine months. kneir. that's a lie--it's more than a year. bar. no, it isn't. jo. well, just count up--november, december-bos. that'll do, children. no quarreling. life is too short. well, barend, how would the forty-seven suit you?--eh, what?---bar. [anxiously.] the forty-seven---bos. the good hope---clem. [surprised.] are you going to send out the good hope?---bos. [sharply.] you keep out of this! keep out, i say! clem. and this morning---bos. [angrily.] clementine! clem. but pa---bos. [angrily stamping his foot.] will you please go on? clem. [shrugging her shoulders.] hey! how contemptible, to get mad--how small--bonjour! [exits.] kneir. good day, miss. bos. [smiling.] a cat, eh! just like her mama, i have to raise the devil now and then,--hahaha!--or my wife and daughter would run the business--and i would be in the kitchen peeling the potatoes, hahaha! not but what i've done it in my youth. kneir. and don't i remember---bos. [smacking his lips.] potatoes and fresh herring! but what's past is gone. with a fleet of eight luggers your mind is on other things--[smiling.] even if i do like the sight of saucy black eyes--don't mind me, i'm not dangerous--there was a time.----hahaha! kneir. go on, meneer. don't mind us. bos. well, our little friend here, what does he say? kneir. open your mouth, speak! bar. i would rather---kneir. [angrily.] rather--rather! jo. hey! what a stupid!---bos. children! no quarreling. boy, you must decide for yourself. last year at the herring catch the good hope made the sum of fourteen hundred guilders in four trips. she is fully equipped, hengst is skipper--all the sailors but one--and the boys--hengst spoke of you for oldest boy. bar. [nervously.] no, no, meneer---kneir. ah, the obstinate beast! all my beating won't drive him aboard. jo. if i were a man---bos. yes, but you're not; you're a pretty girl--ha, ha, ha! we can't use such sailors. well, daddy! and why don't you want to go? afraid of seasickness? you've already made one trip as middle boy---kneir. and as play boy. jo. he'd rather loaf and beg. ah! what a big baby. bos. you are foolish, boy. i sailed with your grandfather. yes, i, too, would rather have sat by mother's pap-pot than held eels with my ice cold hands; rather bitten into a slice of bread and butter than bitten off the heads of the bait. and your father---bar. [hoarsely.] my father was drowned--and brother hendrick--and josef--no, i won't go! bos. [rising.] well--if he feels that way--better not force him, mother kneirtje; i understand how he feels, my father didn't die in his bed, either--but if you begin to reason that way the whole fishery goes up the spout. kneir. [angrily.] it's enough to---bos. softly--softly--you don't catch tipsy herrings with force---jo. [laughing.] tipsy herring, i would like to see that! bos. [laughing.] she doesn't believe it, kneir! we know better! eh, what! kneir. ach--it's no joking matter, meneer, that miserable bad boy talks as if--as if--i had forgotten my husband--and my good josef--and--and--but i have not. [ends in low sobbing.] jo. come, foolish woman! please, aunty dear!--good-for-nothing torment! bos. don't cry, kneir! tears will not restore the dead to life---kneir. no, meneer--i know that, meneer. next month it will be twelve years since the clementine went down. bos. yes, it was the clementine. kneir. november--'88--he was a monkey of seven then, and yet he pretends to feel more than i do about it. bar. [nervously.] i didn't say that. i don't remember my father, nor my brothers--but--but---bos. well, then? bar. i want another trade--i don't want to go to sea--no--no---kneir. another trade--what else can you do? can't even read or write---bar. is that my fault? kneir. no--it is mine, of course! three years i had an allowance--the first year three--the second two twenty-five--and the third one dollar--the other nine i had to root around for myself. bos. have you forgotten me entirely? kneir. i shall always be grateful to you, meneer. if you and the priest hadn't given me work and a warm bite now and then to take home--then--then--and that booby even reproaches me!---bar. i don't reproach--i--i---jo. out with it! the gentleman is looking for a place to live off his income. bar. shut up!--i will do anything--dig sand--plant broom--salting down--i'll be a mason, or a carpenter--or errand boy---jo. or a burgomaster! or a policeman! hahaha! and walk about dark nights to catch thieves--oh!--oh!--what a brave man! bos. little vixen! bar. you make me tired!--did i complain when the salt ate the flesh off my paws so i couldn't sleep nights with the pain? kneir. wants to be a carpenter--the boy is insane--a mason--see the accidents that happen to masons. each trade has something. bos. yes, barendje--there are risks in all trades--my boy. just think of the miners, the machinists, the stokers--the--the--how often do not i, even now, climb the man rope, or row out to a lugger? fancies, my boy! you must not give way to them. kneir. and we have no choice. god alone knows what the winter will be. all the potatoes rotted late this fall, meneer. bos. yes, all over the district. well, boy? bar. no, meneer. kneir. [angrily.] get out of my house, then--sponger! bar. [faintly.] yes, mother. kneir. march! or i'll----[threatening.] bos. come, come. [a pause during which barend walks timidly away.] jo. if i had a son like that---bos. better get a lover first---jo. [brightly.] i've already got one!--if i had a son like that i'd bang him right and left! bah! a man that's afraid! [lightly.] a sailor never knows that sooner or later--he never thinks of that--if geert were that way--there, i know--aunt, imagine--geert---bos. geert?---jo. he'd face the devil--eh, aunt? now, i'm going to finish the potatoes. good bye, meneer. bos. say, black eyes--do you laugh all the time? jo. [with burst of laughter.] no, i'm going to cry. [calls back from the opened door.] aunt--speak of geert. [goes off.] bos. geert?--is that your son, who---kneir. yes, meneer. bos. six months? kneir. yes, meneer. bos. insubordination? kneir. yes, meneer--couldn't keep his hands at home. bos. the stupid blockhead! kneir. i think they must have teased him---bos. that's nonsense! they don't tease the marines. a fine state of affairs. discipline would be thrown overboard to the sharks if sailors could deal out blows every time things didn't go to suit them. kneir. that's so, meneer, but---bos. and is she--smitten with that good-for-nothing? kneir. she's crazy about him, and well she may be. he's a handsome lad, takes after his father--and strong--there is his photograph--he still wore the uniform then--first class--now he is---bos. degraded?---kneir. no, discharged--when he gets out. he's been to india twice--it is hard--if he comes next week--or in two weeks--or tomorrow, i don't know when--i'll have him to feed, too--although--i must say it of him, he won't let the grass grow under his feet--a giant like him can always find a skipper. bos. a sweet beast--i tell you right now, kneir, i'd rather not take him--dissatisfied scoundrels are plenty enough these days--all that come from the navy, i'm damned if it isn't so--are unruly and i have no use for that kind--am i not right? kneir. certainly, meneer, but my boy---bos. there was jacob--crooked jacob, the skipper had to discharge him. he was, god save him, dissatisfied with everything--claimed that i cheated at the count--yes--yes--insane. now he's trying it at maassluis. we don't stand for any nonsense. kneir. may i send him to the skipper then--or direct to the water bailiff's office? bos. yes, but you tell him---kneir. yes, meneer. bos. if he comes in time, he can go out on the good hope. she's just off the docks. they are bringing the provisions and casks aboard now. she'll come back with a full cargo--you know that. kneir. [glad.] yes, meneer. bos. well--good bye! [murmur of voices outside.] what's that? kneir. people returning from the harbor. there's a corpse aboard the anna. bos. pieterse's steam trawler--the deuce! who is it? kneir. i don't know. i'm going to find out. [both go off--the stage remains empty--a vague murmur of voices outside. fishermen, in conversation, pass the window. sound of a tolling church bell. geert sneaks inside through the door at left. throws down a bundle tied in a red handkerchief. looks cautiously into the bedsteads, the cooking shed, peers through the window, then muttering he plumps down in a chair by the table, rests his head on his hand, rises again; savagely takes a loaf of bread from the back cupboard, cuts off a hunk. walks back to chair, chewing, lets the bread fall; wrathfully stares before him. the bell ceases to toll.] bar. [from the cooking shed.] who's there?--geert!--[entering.] geert. [curtly.] yes--it's me--well, why don't you give me a paw. bar. [shaking hands.] have you--have you seen mother yet? geert. [curtly.] no, where is she---bar. mother, she--she---geert. what are you staring at? bar. you--you--have you been sick? geert. sick? i'm never sick. bar. you look so--so pale---geert. give me the looking-glass. i'll be damned. what a mug! [throws the mirror roughly down.] bar. [anxiously.] was it bad in prison? geert. no, fine!--what a question--they feed you on beefsteaks! is there any gin in the house? bar. no. geert. go and get some then--if i don't have a swallow, i'll keel over. bar. [embarrassed.] i haven't any money. geert. i have. [peers in his pocket, throws a handful of coins on the table.] earned that in prison--there!---bar. at the "red" around the corner? geert. i don't care a damn--so you hurry. [calling after him.] is--is mother well? [a pause.]--and jo? bar. [at door.] she is digging potatoes. geert. are they mad at me? bar. why? geert. because i--[savagely.] don't stare so, stupid---bar. [embarrassed.] i can't get used to your face--it's so queer. geert. queer face, eh! i must grow a beard at once!--say, did they make a devil of a row? [gruffly.] well?---bar. i don't know. geert. go to the devil! you don't know anything. [a pause, barend slips out. jo enters, a dead rabbit in her hand.] jo. jesus! [lets the rabbit fall.]--geert! [rushes to him, throws her arms about his neck, sobbing hysterically.] geert. [in a muffled voice.] stop it! stop your damned bawling--stop! jo. [continuing to sob.] i am so happy--so happy, dear geert---geert. [irritated.] now! now! jo. i can't help it. [sobs harder.] geert. [pulling her arms from his neck.]--now then! my head can't stand such a lot of noise---jo. [startled.] a lot of noise? geert. [grumbling.] you don't understand it of course--six months solitary--in a dirty, stinking cell. [puts his hand before his eyes as if blinded by the light.] drop the curtain a bit--this sunshine drives me mad! jo. my god--geert---geert. please!--that's better. jo. your beard---geert. they didn't like my beard--the government took that--become ugly, haven't i?--look as if i'd lost my wits? eh? jo. [with hesitating laugh.] you? no--what makes you think that? you don't show it at all. [sobs again softly.] geert. well, damn it! is that all you have to say. [she laughs hysterically. he points to his temples.] become grey, eh? jo. no, geert. geert. you lie. [kicking away the mirror.] i saw it myself. the beggars; to shut up a sailor in a cage where you can't walk, where you can't speak, where you--[strikes wildly upon the table with his fist.] bar. here is the gin. jo. the gin? bar. for geert. geert. don't you meddle with this--where is a glass?--never mind--[swallows eagerly.]--that's a bracer! what time is it? bar. half past four. jo. did you take bread? were you hungry? geert. yes, no--no, yes. i don't know. [puts the bottle again to his lips.] jo. please, geert--no more--you can't stand it. geert. no more? [swallows.] ripping!--hahaha! that's the best way to tan your stomach. [swallows.] ripping! don't look so unhappy, girl--i won't get drunk! bah! it stinks! not accustomed to it--are there any provisions on board? jo. look--a fat one, eh? trapped him myself. [picks up the rabbit.] not dead an hour. geert. that will do for tomorrow--here, you, go and lay in a supply--some ham and some meat---bar. meat, geert? jo. no--that's extravagance--if you want to buy meat, keep your money till sunday. geert. sunday--sunday--if you hadn't eaten anything for six months but rye bread, rats, horse beans--i'm too weak to set one foot before the other. stop your talk--hurry up! and--and a piece of cheese--i feel like eating myself into a colic. hahaha! shall i take another wee drop? [barend goes off.] jo. no. geert. good, not another drop. is there any tobacco? jo. god!--i'm glad to see you cheerful again. yes, there's some tobacco left--in the jar. geert. that's good. fine! is that my old pipe? jo. i saved it for you. geert. who did you flirt with, while i sat---jo. [merrily.] with uncle cobus! geert. you women are all trash. [fills his pipe; smokes.] haven't had the taste in my mouth for half a year. this isn't tobacco; [exhales.] tastes like hay--bah! the gin stinks and the pipe stinks. jo. eat something first---geert. [laying down the pipe.] say, do you still sleep with mother? jo. yes, next to the pig stye. geert. [laughing.] and must i sleep under the roof again? jo. you'll sleep nice and warm up there, dear. kneir. [outside.] why is the window curtain down? jo. [finger on her lips.] sst! [goes and stands before geert.] kneir. [inside.] what's going on here? why is the looking-glass on the floor? who sits---geert. [rising.] well, little old one! kneir. god almighty! geert. no--it's me--geert---kneir. [dropping into a chair.] oh!--oh!--my heart beats so! geert. hahaha! that's damned good! [tries to embrace her.] kneir. no--no--not yet--later. geert. not yet?--why later? kneir. [reproachfully.] you--what have you done to make me happy! jo. [coaxingly.] never mind that now---geert. i've got enough in my head now. if you intend to reproach me?--i shall---kneir. you shall---geert. pack my bundle!---kneir. and this is his home-coming! geert. do you expect me to sit on the sinner's bench? no, thank you. kneir. [anxious; almost crying.] the whole village talked about you--i couldn't go on an errand but---geert. [curtly.] let them that talk say it to my face. i'm no thief or burglar. kneir. no, but you raised your hand against your superior. geert. [fiercely.] i should have twisted my fingers in his throat. kneir. boy--boy; you make us all unhappy. [begins to sob.] geert. [stamping.] treated like a beast, then i get the devil besides. [grabs his bundle.] i'm in no mood to stand it. [at the door, hesitates, throws down his bundle.] now! [lower voice.] don't cry, mother--i would rather--damn it! jo. please--auntie dear---kneir. your father lies somewhere in the sea. never would he have looked at you again--and he also had a great deal to put up with. geert. i'm glad i'm different--not so submissive--it's a great honor to let them walk over you! i have no fish blood in me--now then, is it to go on raining? kneir. [embracing him.] if you would only repent. geert. [flaring up.] i'd knock the teeth out of his jaw tomorrow. kneir. how did it happen? jo. hey! yes--tell us all about it. come, now, sit down peaceably. geert. i've sat long enough, hahaha!--let me walk to get the hang of it. [lighting his pipe again.] bah! jo. stop smoking then, donkey! geert. now i'll--but for you it would never have happened---jo. [laughing.] but for me?--that's a good one! geert. i warned you against him. jo. against who--what are you talking about? geert. that cad--don't you remember dancing with him at the tavern van de rooie? jo. i?--danced?---geert. the night before we sailed. jo. with that cross-eyed quartermaster?--i don't understand a word of it--was it with him?--and you yourself wanted me to---geert. you can't refuse a superior--on board ship he had stories. i overheard him tell the skipper that he---jo. [angrily.] what? geert. that he--never mind what--he spoke of you as if you were any sailor's girl. jo. i!--the low down---geert. when he came into the hold after the dog watch, i hammered him on the jaw with a marlin spike. five minutes later i sat in irons. kept in them six days--[sarcastically.] the provost was full; then two weeks provost; six months solitary; and suspended from the navy for ten years; that, damn me, is the most--i'd chop off my two hands to get back in; to be nigger-driven again; cursed as a beggar again; ruled as a slave again---kneir. geert--geert--don't speak such words. in the bible it stands written---geert. [grimly.] stands written--if there was only something written for us---kneir. shame on you---jo. well, wasn't he in the right? kneir. if he had gone politely to the commander---geert. hahaha! you should have been a sailor, mother--hahaha! politely? they were too glad of the chance to clip and shear me. while i was in the provost they found newspapers in my bag i was not allowed to read--and pamphlets i was not allowed to read--that shut the door--otherwise they would have given me only third class---kneir. newspapers you were not allowed to read? then why did you read them? geert. why--simple soul--ach!--when i look at your submissive face i see no way to tell why--why do men desert?--why, ten days before this happened to me, did peter the stoker cut off his two fingers?--just for a joke? no, on purpose! i can't blame you people--you knew no better--and i admired the uniform--but now that i've got some brains i would like to warn every boy that binds himself for fourteen years to murder. kneir. to murder? boy, don't say such dreadful things--you are excited---geert. excited? no--not at all--worn out, in fact--in atjeh i fought with the rest--stuck my bayonet into the body of a poor devil till the blood spurted into my eyes--for that they gave me the atjeh medal. i have it still in my bundle. hand it here. [jo picks up the bundle; barend looks on.] where is the thing? [jerks the medal from his jacket, throws it out of the window.] away! you have dangled on my breast long enough! kneir. geert! geert! who has made you like this! i no longer know you---geert. who--who took an innocent boy, that couldn't count ten, and kidnaped him for fourteen years? who drilled and trained him for a dog's life? who put him in irons when he defended his girl? irons--you should have seen me walking in them, groaning like an animal. near me walked another animal with irons on his leg, because of an insolent word to an officer of the watch. six days with the damned irons on your claws and no power to break them. six days lower than a beast. jo. don't talk about it any more, you are still so tired---geert. [wrapped in the grimness of his story.] then the provost, that stinking, dark cage; your pig stye is a palace to it. a cage with no windows--no air--a cage where you can't stand or lie down. a cage where your bread and water is flung to you with a "there, dog, eat!" there was a big storm in those days,--two sloops were battered to pieces;--when you expected to go to the bottom any moment. never again to see anyone belongin' to me--neither you--nor you--nor you. to go down in that dark, stinking hole with no one to talk to--no comrade's hand!--no, no, let me talk--it lightens my chest! another drop. [drinks quickly.] from the provost to the court martial. a fellow has lots to bring in there. your mouth shut. sit up; mouth shut some more. gold epaulettes sitting in judgment on the trash god has kicked into the world to serve, to salute, to---kneir. boy--boy---geert. six months--six months in a cell for reformation. to be reformed by eating food you could not swallow;--rye bread, barley, pea soup, rats! three months i pasted paper bags, and when i saw the chance i ate the sour paste from hunger. three months i sorted peas; you'll not believe it, but may i never look on the sea again if i lie. at night, over my gas light, i would cook the peas i could nip in my slop pail. when the handle became too hot to hold any longer, i ate them half boiled--to fill my stomach. that's to reform you--reform you--for losing your temper and licking a blackguard that called your girl a vile name, and reading newspapers you were not allowed to read. kneir. [anxiously.] that was unjust. geert. unjust! how dare you say it! fresh from the sea--in a cell--no wind and no water, and no air--one small high window with grating like a partridge cage. the foul smell and the nights--the damned nights, when you couldn't sleep. when you sprang up and walked, like an insane man, back and forth--back and forth--four measured paces. the nights when you sat and prayed not to go insane--and cursed everything, everything, everything! [drops his head upon his hands.] jo. [after a long pause goes to him and throws her arms about his neck. kneirtje weeps, barend stands dazed.] geert! geert. now! don't let us--[forcibly controlling his tears.] a light! [smokes.] now, mother! [goes to the window--says to barend.] lay out the good things--[draws up the curtain.] i'll be damned! if the rooster isn't sitting on the roof again, ha, ha, ha! will you believe it? i would like to sail at once--two days on the sea! the sea! the sea!--and i'm my old self again. what?--why is truus crying as she walks by? truus! [calling.] kneir. ssst!--don't call after her. the anna has just come in without her husband. [a few sad-looking, low-speaking women walk past the window.] poor thing! six children---geert. is ari--[she nods.] that's damned sad! [drops the window curtain, stands in somber thought.] curtain. act ii. [same room. time--early afternoon.] jo. [by the table.] hey! marietje. [entering.] they haven't come yet? simon. no, they haven't come yet. [starting to go.] jo. are you running away again? simon. that is to say---marietje. good gracious, father, do stay awhile. simon. yes--i won't go far--i must---marietje. you must nothing---simon. well, salamander, am i a child? i must--i must----[abruptly off.] marietje. stop it if you can. it begins early in the morning. jo. is he bad again? marietje. you should have seen him day before yesterday--half the village at his heels. ach! ach! when mother was living he didn't dare. she used to slap his face for him when he smelled of gin--just let me try it. jo. [bursting into a laugh.] you say that as though--ha ha ha! mees ought to hear that. marietje. i never have seen mees drinking--and father very seldom formerly. ah well--i can't put a cork in his mouth, nor lead him around by a rope. [looks through the window.] gone, of course--to the rooie. horrid old drunkard. how old is kneirtje today? jo. sixty-one. young for her years, isn't she, eh? sit down and tell me [merrily.] when are you going to be married? marietje. that depends on the length of the voyage. you know we would like to marry at once [smiles, hesitates.] because--because----well, you understand. but mees had to send for his papers first--that takes two weeks--by that time he is far out at sea; now five weeks--five little weeks will pass quickly enough. jo. [joyfully confidential.] we shall be married in december. marietje. that's about the same----are you two!----now?----i told you everything---[jo shrugs her shoulders and laughs.] kneir. [entering.] laughing as usual. marietje. [kissing her.] may you live to be a hundred---kneir. god forbid!--a hundred years. i haven't the money for that! [opening a bag.] you may try one--you, too--gingerbread nuts--no, not two, you, with the grab-all fingers! for each of the boys a half pound gingerbread nuts--and a half pound chewing tobacco--and a package of cigars. do you know what i'm going to give barend since he has become so brave--look---jo. now--you should give those to geert---kneir. no, i'm so pleased with the lad that he has made up his mind i want to reward him. marietje. did you buy them? kneir. no, indeed! these are ever so old, they are earrings. my husband wore them sundays, when he was at home. marietje. there are little ships on them--masts--and sails--i wish i had them for a brooch. jo. why give them to that coward? that's not right. marietje. you had a time getting him to sign--eh! kneir. yes--yes. but he was willing to go with his brother--and now take it home to yourself--a boy that is not strong--not very strong--rejected for the army, and a boy who heard a lot about his father and josef. jo. i just can't stand that! first you curse and scold at him, and now nothing is too good. kneir. even so, no matter what has been. in an hour he will be gone, and you must never part in anger. have a sweet dram, marietje. we have fresh wafers and ginger cakes all laid in for my birthday--set it all ready, jo. saart is coming soon, and the boys may take a dram, too. cobus. [through the window. daantje with him.] a sweet young miss and a glass of anis- i shall surely come in for this. kneir. throw your chew away before you come in. cob. indeed i'll not! [hides it in his red handkerchief.] no--now--you know what i want to say. daan. same here. same here. jo. i don't need to ask if----[pours the dram.] cob. no--no--go ahead--just a little more. jo. there!--now it is running over. cob. no matter, i shan't spill a drop. [bends trembling to the table. lips to the glass, sucks up the liquor.] he, he, he! daan. ginger cake? if you please. [yawns.] marietje. [imitating his yawn.] ah! thanks! daan. when you have my years!--hardly slept a wink last night--and no nap this afternoon. jo. creep into the bedstead. cob. that's what he would like to do---marietje. better take a hot bottle, daan! cob. now, if i had my choice---kneir. hold your tongue--story teller! the matron at the home has to help dress him. and yet he---jo. ha, ha, ha! oh, uncle cobus! marietje. oh! oh! hahaha! cob. tja! the englishman says: "the old man misses the kisses, and the young man kisses the misses." do you know what that means? jo. yes, that means, "woman, take your cat inside, its beginning to rain." hahaha! hahaha! saart. [through door at left.] good day! congratulations everybody! cob. come in. saart. good day, daantje; day, cobus; and day, marietje; and day, jo. no, i'll not sit down. kneir. a dram---saart. no, i'll not sit down. my kettle is on the fire. jo. come now! saart. no, i'm not going to do it--my door is ajar--and the cat may tip over the oil stove. no, just give it to me this way--so--so--many happy returns, and may your boys--where are the boys? kneir. geert has gone to say good bye, and barend has gone with mees to take the mattresses and chests in the yawl. they'll soon be here, for they must be on board by three o'clock. saart. hey, this burns my heart out. [refers to the anisette.] were you at leen's yesterday? kneir. no, couldn't go. saart. there was a lot of everything and more too. the bride was full,--three glasses "roses without thorns," two of "perfect love," and surely four glasses of "love in a mist." well! where she stowed it all i don't know. cob. give me the old fashioned dram, brandy and syrup--eh! daantje? daantje. [startled.] what? kneir. he's come here to sleep--you look as if you hadn't been to bed at all. cob. in his bed--he, he, he! daan. [crossly.] come, no jokes. cob. hehehe! [takes out his handkerchief.] kneir. no, i say, don't take out your chew. saart. old snooper! cob. snooper? no, you'd never guess how i got it. less than ten minutes ago i met bos the ship-owner, and he gave me--he gave me a little white roll--of--of tissue paper with tobacco inside. what do you call the things? marietje. cigarettes. cob. yes, catch me smoking a thing like that in--in paper--that's a chew with a shirt on. saart. and you're a crosspatch without a shirt. no, i'm not going to sit down. jo. it's already poured out. simon. [drunk.] day. kneir. day, simon--shove in, room for you here. simon. [plumps down by door at left.] i'll sit here. cob. have a sweet dram? marietje. no. simon. [huskily.] why no? marietje. you've had enough. simon. have i? salamanders! marietje. no, i won't have it. kneir. did you see geert? simon. [muttering.] wh--wh--geert! cob. give him just one, for a parting cup. marietje. [angrily.] no! no! simon. [thickly.] no? i'll be damned! [lights a nose warmer.] kneir. is there much work in the dry dock, simon? simon. that stands fast. saart. well--i'm going. jo. hey! how unsociable! they'll soon be here. come sit down---saart. no, if i sit down i stay too long. well then, half a glass--no--no cookies. geert. [through door at left.] it looks like all hands on deck here! good day, everybody! [pointing to simon.] lazarus! eh, simon? simon. [muttering.] uh--ja---marietje. let him alone. geert. the deuce, but you're touchy! we've got a quarter of an hour, boys! pour out the drinks, jo. [sits between kneir. and jo.] here's to you, mother! prost! santy, jo! santy, daantje! santys! jo. hahaha! fallen asleep with a ginger nut in his hand. kneir. isn't he well? cob. no. sick in the night--afraid to call the matron; walked about in his bare feet; got chilled. geert. afraid of the matron! are you eating charity bread? cob. it's easy for you to talk, but if you disturb her, she keeps you in for two weeks. geert. poor devils--i don't want to live to be so old. jo. oh, real sweet of you. we're not even married yet--and he's a widower already! geert. [gaily.] there's many a slip! hahaha! shall i give him a poke? i don't need a belaying pin----[sings.] "sailing, sailing, don't wait to be called; starboard watch, spring from your bunk; let the man at the wheel go to his rest; the rain is good and the wind is down. it's sailing, it's sailing, it's sailing for the starboard watch." [the others join him in beating time on the table with their fists.] hahaha! [general laugh.] daan. [awakes with a start.] you'll do the same when you're as old as i am. geert. hahaha! i'll never be old. leaky ships must sink. jo. now, geert. saart. never be old! you might have said that a while back when you looked like a wet dish rag. but now! prison life agreed with you, boy! cob. hehehe! now we can make up a song about you, pasting paper bags--just as domela--he he he! [sings in a piping voice.] my nevvy geert pastes paper bags, hi-ha, ho! my nevvy geert---saart. pastes paper bags. daan., jo., marietje and cobus. hi--ha--ho! geert. [laughing.] go to thunder! you're making a joke of it! kneir. [anxiously.] please don't be so noisy. it isn't best. jo. oh! i expected that! this is your birthday, see! do take a chair, saart. saart. chair. i'm blest if i see---marietje. i don't mind standing. saart. no--there's room here. [squeezes in beside cobus.] cob. i'll be falling off here! marietje. [standing beside her dazed father.] father! simon. [muttering.] they must--they must--not--not--that's fast. marietje. come, now! geert. let the man sail his own mast overboard! he isn't in the way. simon. [with dazed gesture.] you must--you must---marietje. [crossly.] what's the matter now? simon. [mumbling.] the ribs--and--and----[firmly.] that's fast!---geert, jo., cobus, daantje and saart. ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! mees. [enters.] salute! kneir. [anxiously.] are you alone? where's barend? mees. i don't know. kneir. you went together to take the mattresses and chests---mees. row with the skipper! he's no sailor! jo. a row? has the trouble begun already? mees. can't repeat a word of it--afraid--afraid--always afraid----[to marietje, who has induced her father to rise.] are you coming along? jo. no, take a dram before you go. it's aunt's birthday. mees. you don't say! now--now--kneir, many happy returns. kneir. you have made me anxious. jo. [laughing.] anxious! kneir. yes, anxious! she's surprised at that. i've taken an advance from bos. geert. he's signed, hasn't he? don't worry, mother! cob. perhaps he's saying good-bye to his girl. [sound of jelle's fiddle outside.] ta, de, da! saart. do sit still--one would think you'd eaten horse flesh. daan. they give us meat? not even a dead cat! jelle. [playing the old polka.] if you please! geert. come on in, old man! jo. poor old fellow, gets blinder every day. jelle. [playing.] i come regular once a week. geert. another tune first, old man! not that damned old polka. jo. yes, play that tune of--of--what do you call 'em? cob. yes, the one she mentions is fine. saart. you know, jelle, the one--that one that goes [sings.] "i know a song that charms the heart." mees. say! give us----[jelle begins the marseillaise.] that's better fare. [sings.] "alloose--vodela--bedeije--deboe--debie--de boolebie." marietje. hahaha! that's the french of a dead codfish! jo. hahaha! mees. laugh all you please! i've laid in a french port--and say, it was first rate! when i said pain they gave me bread--and when i said "open the port," they opened the door. great! geert. all gammon! begin again, jelle. why the devil! let's use the dutch words we've got for it. [jelle begins again. geert roars.] "arise men, brothers, all united! arise burgers, come join with us! your wrongs, your sorrows be avenged"-bos. [who has stood at the open window listening during the singing, yells angrily.] what's going on here? [scared hush over all.] damn it! it's high time you were all on board! [goes off furious.] kneir. [after a long pause.] oh--oh--how he scared me--he! he! jo. what's the matter with him? mees. i couldn't think where the voice came from. saart. how stupid of you to roar like a weaned pig, when you know meneer bos lives only two doors away. marietje. lord, wasn't he mad. cob. hehehe! you'll never eat a sack of salt with him. kneir. what business had you to sing those low songs, anyway? geert. well, i'll be damned! am i in my own house or not? if he hadn't taken me by surprise! an old frog like that before your eyes of a sudden. i'd cleaned out his cupboard! play on, jelle! [jelle begins again.] kneir. ach, please don't, geert. i'm afraid that if meneer bos----[motions to jelle to stop.] geert. this one is afraid to sail, this one of the matron of the old men's home, this one of a little ship owner! forbids me in my own house! commands me as though i were a servant! saart. fun is fun, but if you were a ship owner, you wouldn't want your sailors singing like socialists either. kneir. when he knows how dependent i am, too. geert. [passionately.] dependent! don't be dependent! is it an honor to do his cleaning! why not pay for the privilege! thank him for letting you scrub! dependent! for mopping the office floor and licking his muddy boots you get fifty cents twice a week and the scraps off their plates. jo. don't get so angry, foolish boy! kneir. oh, what a row i'll get saturday! geert. a row, you? why should he row with you? if you hadn't all your life allowed this braggart who began with nothing to walk over you and treat you as a slave, while father and my brothers lost their lives on the sea making money for him, you'd give him a scolding and damn his hide for his insolence in opening his jaw. kneir. i--i--god forbid. geert. god forbids you to bend your neck. here--take it--jelle. next year mother will give you pennies to play. "arise men, brothers, all unite-e-ed"---kneir. please, geert, please don't. [lays her hand on his mouth.] jo. hey! stop tormenting your old mother on her birthday. [jelle holds out his hand.] here, you can't stand on one leg. cob. do you want money from me? it's all in the bank. [pointing to daan.] he's the man to go to. daan. [crossly, drinking.] peh! don't make a fool of me. jelle. well, thanks to you both. [off.] mees. will you come along now? geert. i'll wait a few minutes for barend. what's your hurry? the boys will come by here any way. saart. don't you catch on that those two are--a good voyage. mees and marietje. [shaking hands.] good voyage! kneir. half past two--i'm uneasy. saart. half past two? have i staid so long--and my door ajar! good voyage. good day, kneir. [off.] bos. [brusquely coming through the kitchen door.] are you also planning to stay behind? geert. [gruffly.] are you speaking to me? bos. [angrily.] yes, to you. skipper hengst has my orders. understand? geert. [calmly to the others.] gone crazy---bos. [more angry.] the police have been notified. geert. [with forced calm.] you and the police make me tired. [cobus and daantje slink away, stopping outside to listen at the window.] are you out of your head? who said i wasn't going? kneir. yes, meneer, he is all ready to go. bos. that other boy of yours that hengst engaged--refuses to go. kneir. oh, good god! bos. [to cobus and daan.] why are you listening? [they bow in a scared way and hastily go on.] this looks like a dive--drunkenness and rioting. jo. [excusing.] it's aunt's birthday. geert. [angrily.] mother's birthday or not, we do as we please here. bos. you change your tone or---geert. my tone? you get out! kneir. [anxious.] ach--dear geert--don't take offense, meneer--he's quick tempered, and in anger one says---bos. things he's no right to say. dirt is all the thanks you get for being good to you people. [threatening.] if you're not on board in ten minutes, i'll send the police for you! geert. you send--what do you take me for, any way! bos. what i take him for--he asks that--dares to ask----[to kneirtje.] you'll come to me again recommending a trouble-maker kicked out by the navy. geert. [mocking.] did you recommend? hahaha! you make me laugh! you pay wages and i do the work. for the rest you can go to hell. bos. you're just a big overgrown boy, that's all! geert. [threatening.] if it wasn't for mother--i'd---kneir. [throwing her arms about him.] geert! geert! [a long pause.] bos. and this in your house! good day. [at the door.] kneir, kneir, consider well what you do--i gave you an advance in good faith---kneir. ach, yes, meneer--ach, yes---bos. haven't i always treated you well? kneir. yes, meneer--you and the priest---bos. one of your sons refuses to go, the other--you'll come to a bad end, my little friend. geert. haul in your fore sheet! on board i'm a sailor--i'm the skipper here. such a topsy turvy! a ship owner layin' down the law; don't do this and don't do that! boring his nose through the window when you don't sing to suit him. bos. for my part, sing, but a sensible sailor expecting to marry ought to appreciate it when his employer is looking out for his good. your father was a thorough good man. did he ever threaten his employer? you young fellows have no respect for grey hairs. geert. respect for grey hairs? by thunder, yes! for grey hairs that have become grey in want and misery---bos. [shrugging his shoulders.] your mother's seen me, as child, standing before the bait trays. i also have stood in an east wind that froze your ears, biting off bait heads---geert. that'll do. we don't care for your stories, meneer. you have become a rich man, and a tyrant. good!--you are perhaps no worse than the rest, but don't interfere with me in my own house. my father was a different sort. we may all become different, and perhaps my son may live to see the day when he will come, as i did, twelve years ago, crying to the office, to ask if there's any news of his father and his two brothers! and not find their employer sitting by his warm fire and his strong box, drinking grog. he may not be damned for coming so often to ask the same thing, nor be turned from the door with snubs and the message, "when there's anything to tell you'll hear of it." bos. [roughly.] you lie--i never did anything of the sort. geert. i won't soil any more words over it. only to let you know i remember. my father's hair was grey, my mother's hair is grey, jelle, the poor devil who can't find a place in the old men's home because on one occasion in his life he was light-fingered--jelle has also grey hairs. bos. fine! reasoning without head or tail. if you hear him or crooked jacob, it's the same cuckoo song. [to kneir.] it's come out, eh? but now i'll give another word of advice, my friend, before you go under sail. you have an old mother, you expect to marry, good; you've been in prison six months--i won't talk of that; you have barked out your insolence to me in your own house, but if you attempt any of this talk on board the hope you'll find out there is a muster roll. geert. every year old child knows that. bos. when you've become older--and wiser--you'll be ashamed of your insolence--"the ship owner by his warm stove, and his grog"---geert. and his strong box---bos. [hotly.] and his cares, you haven't the wits to understand! who feeds you all? geert. [forced calmness.] who hauls the fish out of the sea? who risks his life every hour of the day? who doesn't take off his clothes in five or six weeks? who walks with hands covered with salt sores,--without water to wash face or hands? who sleep like beasts two in a bunk? who leave wives and mothers behind to beg alms? twelve head of us are presently going to sea--we get twenty-five per cent of the catch, you seventy-five. we do the work, you sit safely at home. your ship is insured, and we--we can go to the bottom in case of accident--we are not worth insuring---kneir. [soothing.] geert! geert! geert! bos. that's an entertaining lad! you should be a clown in a circus! twenty-seven per cent isn't enough for him---geert. i'll never eat salted codfish from your generosity! our whole share is in "profit and loss." when luck is with us we each make eight guilders a week, one guilder a day when we're lucky. one guilder a day at sea, to prepare salt fish, cod with livers for the people in the cities--hahaha!--a guilder a day--when you're lucky and don't go to the bottom. you fellows know what you're about when you engage us on shares. [old and young heads of fishermen appear at the window.] a voice. are you coming? [bos is politely greeted.] geert. i shall soon follow you. bos. good voyage, men! and say to the skipper--no, never mind--i'll be there myself----[a pause.] twenty-five minutes past two. now i'll take two minutes more, blockhead, to rub under your nose something i tried three times to say, but you gave me no chance to get in a word. when you lie in your bunk tonight--as a beast, of course!--try and think of my risks, by a poor catch--lost nets and cordage--by damages and lightning in the mast, by running aground, and god knows what else. the jacoba's just had her hatches torn off, the queen wilhelmina half her bulwarks washed away. you don't count that, for you don't have to pay for it! three months ago the expectation collided with a steamer. without a thought of the catch or the nets, the men sprang overboard, leaving the ship to drift! who thought of my interests? you laugh, boy, because you don't realize what cares i have. on the mathilde last week the men smuggled gin and tobacco in their mattresses to sell to the english. now the ship lies chained. do you pay the fine? geert. pluck feathers off a frog's back. hahaha! bos. if you were talking about conditions in middelharnis or pernis, you'd have reason for it. my men don't pay the harbor costs, don't pay for bait, towing, provisions, barrels, salt. i don't expect you to pay the loss of the cordage, if a gaff or a boom breaks. i go into my own pocket for it. i gave your mother an advance, your brother barend deserts. kneir. no, meneer, i can't believe that. bos. hengst telephoned me from the harbor, else i wouldn't have been here to be insulted by your oldest son, who's disturbing the whole neighborhood roaring his scandalous songs! i'm going to the ship! [angrily.] if you're not on board on time i'll apply "article sixteen" and fine you twenty-five guilders. geert. yes, why not? i can stand it! bos. [turning to kneir.] as for you, my wife doesn't need you at present, you're all a bad lot here. kneir. [anxiously.] ach, meneer, it isn't my fault! geert. must you punish the old woman too? bos. blame your own sons for that! after this voyage you can look for another employer, who enjoys throwing pearls before swine better than i do! geert. and now, get out! get out! [pushes the door shut after bos.] kneir. what a birthday! what a birthday! jo. don't hang your head so soon, aunt! geert was in the right---kneir. in the right! what good does that do? geert. you're not running after him? kneir. no, to look for barend. great god, if he should desert--if he deserts--he also goes to prison--two sons who---geert. aren't you going to wish me a good voyage--or don't you think that necessary? kneir. my head is queer. i'm coming to the harbor. yes, i'm coming---jo. i'm sorry for her, the poor thing. geert. he's a hound, that fellow! jo. where's your sou'wester? hope it isn't mislaid. you gave him a talking to, didn't you? it was drunken simon that set him going. now don't look so solemn. here it is. [picks a geranium from a flower pot.] there! and you keep it on, so. [on his knee.] and you will think of me every night, will you? will you? [springing up.] what, are you back so soon? kneir. [enters.] isn't he in here? geert. he's in the pocket of my jacket! hahaha! kneir. truus saw him hanging around the house. ach! ach! ach! geert. we're going! come along with us. if that coward refuses to go, your sitting at home won't help a damn. kneir. no, no, no. jo. follow after us, then! kneir. [anxiously.] yes, yes, yes! don't forget your chewing tobacco and your cigars---geert. [gaily.] if you're too late--i'll never look at you again! [exeunt geert and jo.] bar. [entering quickly from left.] s-s-s-st! kneir. you miserable bad boy! bar. s-ssst! kneir. what sssst! i'll shout the whole village together if you don't immediately run and follow geert and jo. bar. [panting.] if you can keep geert from going--call him back! kneir. have you gone crazy with fear, you big coward? bar. [panting.] the good hope is no good, no good--her ribs are rotten--the planking is rotten!---kneir. don't stand there telling stories to excuse yourself. after half past two! march!---bar. [almost crying.] if you don't believe me! kneir. i won't listen. march! or i'll slap your face. bar. strike me then! strike me then! ah, god! keep geert from going! simon the ship carpenter warned me. kneir. simon, the ship carpenter--that drunken sot who can't speak two words. you are a disgusting bad boy. first you sign, then you run away! get up! bar. me--you may beat me to death!--but i won't go on an unseaworthy ship! kneir. what do you know about it? hasn't the ship been lying in the dry docks? bar. there was no caulking her any more--simon---kneir. shut your mouth with your simon! march, take your package of chewing tobacco. bar. [yelling.] i'm not going--i'm not going. you don't know--you didn't see it! the last voyage she had a foot of water in her hold! kneir. the last voyage? a ship that has just returned from her fourth voyage to the herring catch and that has brought fourteen loads! has it suddenly become unseaworthy, because you, you miserable coward, are going along? bar. [with feverish anxiety.] i looked in the hold--the barrels were floating. you can see death that is hiding down there. kneir. bilge water, as in every ship! the barrels floating! tell that to your grandmother, not to an old sailor's wife. skipper hengst is a child, eh! isn't hengst going and mees and gerrit and jacob and nellis--your own brother and truus' little peter? do you claim to know more than old seamen? [fiercely.] get up! i'm not going to stand it to see you taken aboard by the police---bar. [crying.] oh, mother dear, mother dear, don't make me go! kneir. oh, god; how you have punished me in my children--my children are driving me to beggary. i've taken an advance--bos has refused to give me any more cleaning to do--and--and----[firmly.] well, then, let them come for you--you'd better be taken than run away. oh, oh, that this should happen in my family---bar. [running to the cooking shed.] kneir. [barring the way.] you'll not get out---bar. let me pass, mother. i don't know what i'm doing--i might hurt---kneir. now he is brave, against his sixty year old mother----raise your hand if you dare! bar. [falls on a chair shaking his head between his hands.] oh, oh, oh--if they take me aboard, you'll never see me again--you'll never see geert again---kneir. the ship is in god's hands. it's tempting god to rave this way with fear----[friendlier tone.] come, a man of your age must not cry like a child--come! i wanted to surprise you with father's earrings--come! bar. mother dear--i don't dare--i don't dare--i shall drown--hide me--hide me---kneir. have you gone insane, boy! if i believed a word of your talk, would i let geert go? [puts a package in his pocket.] there's a package of tobacco, and one of cigars. now sit still, and i'll put in your earrings--look--[talking as to a child.]--real silver--ships on them with sails--sit still, now--there's one--there's two--walk to the looking glass---bar. [crying.] no--no!---kneir. come now, you're making me weak for nothing--please, dear boy--i do love you and your brother--you're all i have on earth. come now! every night i will pray to the good god to bring you home safely. you must get used to it, then you will become a brave seaman--and--and----[cries.] come now, barend, barend! [holds the mirror before him.] look at your earrings--what?---1st policeman. [coming in through door at left, good-natured manner.] skipper hengst has requested the police----if you please, my little man, we have no time to lose. bar. [screaming.] i won't go! i won't go! the ship--is rotten---2nd policeman. [smiling good naturedly.] then you should not have mustered in. must we use force? come now, little man. [taps him kindly on the shoulder.] bar. don't touch me! don't touch me! [clings desperately to the bedstead and door jamb.] 2nd policeman. must we put on the handcuffs, boy? bar. [moaning.] help me, mother! you'll never see me again! i shall drown in the dirty, stinking sea! 1st policeman. [crossly.] come, come! let go of the door jamb! [seizes his wrists.] bar. [clinging harder.] no! [shrieking.] cut off my hands! oh god, oh god, oh god! [crawls up against the wall, beside himself with terror.] kneir. [almost crying.] the boy is afraid---1st policeman. then you tell him to let go! kneir. [sobbing as she seizes barend's hands.] come now, boy--come now--god will not forsake you---bar. [moaning as he loosens his hold, sobs despairingly.] you'll never see me again, never again---1st policeman. forward, march! [they exeunt, dragging barend.] kneir. oh, oh---truus. [with anxious curiosity, at side door.] what was the matter, kneir? kneir. [sobbing.] barend had to be taken by the police. oh, and now i'm ashamed to go walk through the village, to tell them good bye--the disgrace--the disgrace--- curtain. act iii. [scene: same as before. evening. a lighted lamp--the illuminated chimney gives a red glow. a rushing wind howls about the house. jo and kneirtje discovered. kneirtje lying on bed, dressed, jo reading to her from prayerbook.] jo. and this verse is mighty fine. are you listening? [reads.] "mother mary! in piteousness, to your poor children of the sea, reach down your arms in their distress; with god their intercessor be. unto the heart divine your prayer will make an end to all their care." [staring into the bed.] are you asleep? aunt! are you asleep? [a knock--she tiptoes to cook-shed door, puts her finger to her lips in warning to clementine and kaps, who enter.] softly, miss. clementine. [to kaps.] shut the door. what a tempest! my eyes are full of sand. [to jo.] is kneir in bed? jo. she's lying down awhile in her clothes. she's not herself yet, feverish and coughing. clementine. i've brought her a plate of soup, and a half dozen eggs. now then, kaps! kaps! kaps. yes? clementine. on the table. what a bore! deaf as a post! what were you reading? jo. the "illustrated catholic." clementine. where did you put the eggs? kaps. i understand. kneirtje. [from the bedstead.] is anyone there? clementine. it's me, clementine. kneirtje. [rising.] hasn't the wind gone down yet? clementine. i've brought you some veal soup, kneir. it's delicious. well, almighty! you've spilled it all over. kaps. i'd like to see you carry a full pan with the sand blowing in your eyes. clementine. well, its mighty queer. there was twice as much meat in it. kaps. what? can't hear, with the wind. kneirtje. thank you kindly, miss. clementine. [counting the eggs.] one, two, three, four! the others? kaps. there's five--and--[looking at his hand, which drips with egg yolk.]--and---clementine. broken, of course! kaps. [bringing out his handkerchief and purse covered with egg.] i put them away so carefully. what destruction! what a muss! jo. [laughing.] make an omelet of it. kaps. that's because you pushed against me. just look at my keys. clementine. [laughing.] he calls that putting them away carefully. you'd better go home. kaps. [peevishly.] no, that's not true. clementine. [louder.] you may go! i can find the way back alone! kaps. my purse, my handkerchief, my cork screw. [crossly.] good night. [off.] clementine. i don't know why father keeps that bookkeeper, deaf, and cross. does it taste good? kneirtje. yes, miss. you must thank your mother. clementine. indeed i'll not. pa and ma are obstinate. they haven't forgotten the row with your sons yet. mouth shut, or i'll get a scolding. may jo go to the beach with me to look at the sea? the waves have never been so high! jo. yes, i'll go, miss. kneirtje. no, don't leave me alone. go on the beach in such a storm! [crash outside, she screams.] jo. what was that? clementine. i heard something break. [enter cobus.] cob. god bless me! that missed me by a hair. jo. are you hurt? cob. i got a tap aft that struck the spot. lucky my head wasn't there! the tree beside the pig stye was broken in two like a pipe stem. kneirtje. did it come down on the pig stye? cob. i believe it did. kneirtje. i'm afraid it's fallen in. the wood is so rotten. jo. ach, no! aunt always expects the worst. [surprised.] uncle cobus, how do you come to be out, after eight o'clock, in this beastly weather? cob. to fetch the doctor for daan. clementine. is old daan sick? cob. tja. old age. took to his bed suddenly. can't keep anything on his stomach. the beans and pork gravy he ate---clementine. beans and pork gravy for a sick old man? cob. tja. the matron broils him a chicken or a beefsteak--eh? she's even cross because she's got to beat an egg for his breakfast. this afternoon he was delirious, talking of setting out the nets, and paying out the buoy line. i sez to the matron, "his time's come." "look out or yours'll come," sez she. i sez, "the doctor should be sent for." "mind your own business," sez she, "am i the matron or are you?" then i sez, "you're the matron." "well then," sez she. just now, she sez, "you'd better go for the doctor." as if it couldn't a been done this afternoon. i go to the doctor and the doctor's out of town. now i've been to simon to take me to town in his dog car. jo. is simon coming here? clementine. if drunken simon drives, you're likely to roll off the dyke. cob. he isn't drunk tonight. jo. give him a chalk mark for that. must the doctor ride in the dog car? hahaha! cob. why not if he feels like it? shall i tell you something? hey, what a storm! listen! listen! the tiles will soon be coming down. jo. go on, now, tell us the rest. cob. what i want to say is, that it's a blessing for daantje he's out of his head, 'fraid as he's always been of death. afraid! jo. so is everyone else, cobus. cob. every one? that's all in the way you look at it. if my time should come tomorrow, then, i think, we must all! the waters of the sea will not wash away that fact. god has given, god has taken away. now, don't laugh, think! god takes us and we take the fish. on the fifth day he created the sea, great whales and the moving creatures that abound therein, and said: "be fruitful," and he blessed them. that was evening and that was morning, that was the fifth day. and on the sixth day he created man and said also: "be fruitful," and blessed them. that was again evening and again morning, that was the sixth day. no, now, don't laugh. you must think. when i was on the herring catch, or on the salting voyage, there were times when i didn't dare use the cleaning knife. because when you shove a herring's head to the left with your thumb, and you lift out the gullet with the blade, the creature looks at you with such knowing eyes, and yet you clean two hundred in an hour. and when you cut throats out of fourteen hundred cod, that makes twenty-eight hundred eyes that look at you! look! just look. ask me how many fish have i killed? i had few equals in boning and cutting livers. tja, tja, and how afraid they all were! afraid! they looked up at the clouds as if they were saying: "how about this now. he blessed us same as he blessed you?" i say: we take the fish and god takes us. we must all, the beasts must, and the men must, and because we all must, none of us should--now, that's just as if you'd pour a full barrel into an empty one. i'd be afraid to be left alone in the empty barrel, with every one else in the other barrel. no, being afraid is no good; being afraid is standing on your toes and looking over the edge. kneirtje. is that a way to talk at night? you act as if you'd had a dram. cob. a dram? no, not a drop! is that simon? kneirtje. [listening between the bedsteads.] am i right about the pig stye or not? hear how the poor animal is going on out there. i'm sure the wall has fallen in. jo. let me go then. don't you go outside! kneirtje. ach, don't bother me! [off.] jo. you pour yourself out a bowl, uncle cobus! i'll give her a helping hand. cob. take care of the lamp chimney. clementine. [at the window.] oh! oh! oh! what a gale! [returning to the table.] cobus, i'll thank god when the good hope is safely in. cob. tja. no ship is safe tonight. but the hope is an old ship, and old ships are the last to go down. clementine. that's what you say. cob. no, that's what every old sailor says. have a bowl, miss? clementine. [after a silence, staring.] all the same, i shall pray god tonight. cob. that's real good of you, miss. but the jacoba is out and the mathilda is out and the expectation is out. why should you pray for one ship? clementine. the good hope is rotten--so--so----[stops anxiously.] cob. [drinking coffee.] who said that? clementine. that's what----why--that's what----i thought----it just occurred to me. cob. no, you are lying now. clementine. oh, you are polite! cob. if the good hope was rotten, then your father would---clementine. oh, shut your fool mouth, you'll make kneir anxious. quick, kneir, shut the door, for the lamp. kneirtje. [entering with jo.] good thing we looked. jo. the stye had blown down. kneirtje. oh, my poor boys! how scared barend will be, and just as they're homeward bound. jo. coffee, mother? aunt! funny, isn't it, eh? i keep saying mother. you take another cup, miss. the evening is still so long and so gloomy--yes? [enter simon and marietje, who is crying.] simon. good evening. salamanders, what a wind! stop your damn howling---kneirtje. what's the matter? marietje. when i think of mees. kneirtje. now, now, look at jo. her lover is also--be a good seaman's wife. foolish girl! don't be childish. give her a bowl to cheer her up. marietje. it's going into the sixth week. cob. don't cry before you're hurt! you girls haven't had any trouble yet! is the carriage at the door? simon. i'm damned if i like the trip. if it wasn't for daan---jo. here, this will warm you up, simon. simon. [drinking.] curse it, that's hot. it's happened to me before with the dog car, in a tempest like this. it was for katrien. she was expecting every minute. i was upset twice, car and all. and when the doctor came, katrien was dead and the child was dead, but if you ask me, i'd rather sit in my dog car tonight than to be on the sea. kneirtje. yes! yes! jo. another bowl? simon. no, don't let us waste our time. ready, cobus? cob. if you'll only be careful! good night, all! [both exit.] jo. jesus! don't sit around so solemn! let's talk, then we won't think of anything. marietje. last night was stormy, too, and i had such a bad dream. it was so awful. clementine. foolish girl! dreams are not real. marietje. i can't rightly say it was a dream. there was a rap on the window, once. i lay still. again a rap, then i got up. nothing to be seen. nothing. soon as i lay down there came another rap, so. [raps on the table with her knuckles.] and then i saw mees, his face was pale, pale as--god! oh, god! and there was nothing. nothing but the wind. kneirtje. [in deadly fear.] rapped three times? three times? marietje. each time--like that, so----[raps.] jo. you stupid, you, to scare the old woman into a fit with your raps. [a rap. all startled. enter saart and truus.] saart. how scared you all look! good evening, miss. truus. may we come in awhile? jo. hey! thank god you've come. saart. nasty outside! my ears and neck full of sand, and it's cold. just throw a couple of blocks on the fire. truus. i couldn't stand it at home either, children asleep, no one to talk to, and the howling of the wind. two mooring posts were washed away. kneir. [darning a sock.] two mooring posts! saart. talk about something else. jo. yes, i say so too. what's that to us----milk and sugar? yes, eh? saart. what a question! i take coffee without sugar! jo. well, geert never takes sugar. clementine. your little son was a brave boy, truus. i can see him now as he stood waving good-bye. truus. [knitting.] yes, that boy's a treasure, barely twelve. you should have seen him two and a half months ago. when the anna came in without ari. the child behaved like an angel, just like a grown man. he would sit up evenings to chat with me, the child knows more than i do. the lamb, hope he's not been awfully sea sick. saart. [knitting.] now, you may not believe it, but red spectacles keep you from being sea sick. jo. [mending a flannel garment.] hahaha! did you ever try it yourself? you're like the doctors, they let others swallow their doses. saart. many's the night i've slept on board; when my husband was alive i went along on many a voyage. jo. should like to have seen you in oil skins. clementine. were you ever married, saart? saart. hear, now, the young lady is flattering me. i'm not so bad looking as that, miss. yes, i was married. spliced good and fast, too! he was a good man. an excellent man. now and then, when things didn't go to suit him, without speaking ill of the dead, i may say, he couldn't keep his paws at home; then he'd smash things. i still have a coffee pot without a handle i keep as a remembrance.--i wouldn't part with it for a rix dollar. clementine. i won't even offer you a guilder! hahaha! jo. say, you're such a funny story teller, tell us about the harlemmer oil, saart. saart. yes, if it hadn't been for harlemmer oil i might not have been a widow. i could marry again! clementine. how odd! jo. you must hear her talk. come, drink faster! saart. i'm full to the brim! what are you staring at kneir? that's just the wind. now, then, my man was a comical chap. never was another like him. i'd bought him a knife in a leather sheath, paid a good price for it too, and when he'd come back in five weeks and i'd ask him: "jacob, have you lost your knife?" he'd say, "i don't know about my knife--you never gave me a knife." he was that scatter-brained. but when he'd undress himself for the first time in five weeks, and pulled off his rubber boots, bang, the knife would fall on the floor. he hadn't felt it in all that time. clementine. didn't take off his rubber boots in five weeks? saart. then i had to scrub 'im with soap and soda; he hadn't seen water, and covered with vermin. clementine. hey! ugh! saart. wish i could get a cent a dozen for all the lice on board; they get them thrown in with their share of the cargo. hahaha! now then, his last voyage a sheet of water threw him against the bulwarks just as they pulled the mizzen staysail to larboard, and his leg was broke. then they were in a fix--the skipper could poultice and cut a corn, but he couldn't mend a broken leg. then they wanted to shove a plank under it, but jacob wanted harlemmer oil rubbed on his leg. every day he had them rub it with harlemmer oil, and again harlemmer oil, and some more harlemmer oil. ach, the poor thing! when they came in his leg was a sight. you shouldn't have asked me to tell it. jo. last time you laughed about it yourself. saart. now, yes; you can't bring the dead back to life. and when you think of it, it's a dirty shame i can't marry again. clementine. why not? who prevents you? saart. who? those that pieced together the silly laws! a year later the changeable went down with man and mouse. then, bless me, you'd suppose, as your husband was dead, for he'd gone along with his leg and a half, you could marry another man. no, indeed. first you must advertise for him in the newspapers three times, and then if in three times he don't turn up, you may go and get a new license. truus. [monotonously knitting.] i don't think i'll ever marry again. saart. that's not surprisin' when you've been married twice already; if you don't know the men by this time. truus. i wish i could talk about things the way you do. no, it's anxiety. with my first it was a horror; with my second you know yourselves. clementine. go on, truus. i could sit up all night hearing tales of the sea. kneirtje. don't tell stories of suffering and death---saart. hey! how fretful you are! come, pour us some more coffee. truus. [quietly knitting and speaking in a toneless voice.] ach, it couldn't have happened here, kneir. we lived in vlaardingen then, and i'd been married a year without any children. no, pietje was ari's child--and he went away on the magnet. yes, it was the magnet. on the herring catch. that's gone up now. and you understand what happened; else i wouldn't have got acquainted with ari and be living next door to you now. the magnet stayed on the sands or some other place. but i didn't know that then, and so didn't think of it. jo. ssst! keep still! saart. it's nothing. only the wind. truus. now in vlaardingen they have a tower and on the tower a lookout. marietje. same as at maassluis. truus. and this lookout hoists a red ball when he sees a lugger or a trawler or other boat in the distance. and when he sees who it is, he lets down the ball, runs to the ship owner and the families to warn them; that's to say: the albert koster or the good hope is coming. now mostly he's no need to warn the family. for, as soon as the ball is hoisted in the tower, the children run in the streets shouting, i did it, too, as a child: "the ball is up! the ball is up!" then the women run, and wait below for the lookout to come down, and when it's their ship they give him pennies. clementine. and then---truus. [staring into the fire.] and--and--the magnet with my first husband, didn't i say i'd been married a year? the magnet stayed out seven weeks--with provisions for six--and each time the children shouted: "the ball is up, truus! the ball is up, truus!" then i ran like mad to the tower. no one looked at me. they all knew why i ran, and when the lookout came down i could have torn the words out of his mouth. but i would say: "have you tidings--tidings of the magnet?" then he'd say: "no, it's the maria," or the alert, or the concordia, and then i'd drag myself away slowly, so slowly, crying and thinking of my husband. my husband! and each day, when the children shouted, i got a shock through my brain, and each day i stood by the tower, praying that god--but the magnet did not come--did not come. at the last i didn't dare to go to the tower any more when the ball was hoisted. no longer dared to stand at the door waiting, if perhaps the lookout himself would bring the message. that lasted two months--two months--and then--well, then i believed it. [toneless voice.] the fish are dearly paid for. clementine. [after a silence.] and ari?--what happened to him? truus. ari? jo. now, that's so short a time since. truus. [calmly.] ach, child, i'd love to talk about it to every one, all day long. when you've been left with six children--a good man--never gave me a harsh word--never. in two hours he was gone. a blow from the capstan bar. he never spoke again. had it happened six days later they would have brought him in. we would have buried him here. the sharks already swam about the ship. they smell when there's a corpse aboard. kneirtje. yes, that's true, you never see them otherwise. truus. [resigned.] you'll never marry a fisherman, miss; but it's sad, sad; god, so sad! when they lash your dear one to a plank, wrapped in a piece of sail with a stone in it, three times around the big mast, and then, one, two, three, in god's name. the fish are dearly paid for. [sobs softly.] jo. [rising and embracing her.] now, truus! saart. pour her out another bowl. [to marietje.] are you crying again? she keeps thinking of mees? marietje. no, i wasn't thinking of mees, i was thinking of my little brother, who was also drowned. jo. [nervously.] you all seem to enjoy it. clementine. wasn't that on the herring catch? marietje. [going on with her knitting.] his second voyage, a blow from the fore sail, and he lay overboard. he was rope caster. the skipper reached him the herring shovel, but it was smooth and it slipped from his hands. then jerusalem, the mate, held out the broom to him--again he grabbed hold. the three of them pulled him up; then the broom gave way, he fell back into the waves, and for the third time the skipper threw him a line. god wanted my little brother, the line broke, and the end went down with him to the bottom of the sea. clementine. frightful! frightful!--grabbed it three times, and lost it three times. marietje. as if the child knew what was coming in the morning, he had lain crying all night. so the skipper told. crying for mother, who was sick. when the skipper tried to console him, he said: "no, skipper, even if mother does get well, i eat my last herring today." that's what started father to drinking. clementine. now, marietje. marietje. no, truly, miss, when he came back from pieterse's with the money, toontje's share of the cargo as rope caster, eighteen guilders and thirty-five cents for five and a half weeks. then he simply acted insane, he threw the money on the ground, then he cursed at--i won't repeat what--at everything. and i, how old was i then? fourteen. i picked up the money, crying. we needed it. mother's sickness and burial had cost a lot. eighteen guilders is a heap of money, a big heap. jo. eighteen guilders for your child, eighteen--[listening in alarm to the blasts of the wind.] hush! keep still! saart. nothing, nothing at all! what makes you so afraid tonight? jo. afraid? i afraid? no, say, hahaha!---kneirtje. [staring straight ahead.] yes, yes, if the water could only speak. clementine. come now, you tell a tale of the sea. you've had so much experience. kneirtje. a tale? ach, miss, life on the sea is no tale. nothing between yourself and eternity but the thickness of a one-inch plank. it's hard on the men, and hard on the women. yesterday i passed by the garden of the burgomaster. they sat at table and ate cod from which the steam was rising, and the children sat with folded hands saying grace. then, thought i, in my ignorance--if it was wrong, may god forgive me--that it wasn't right of the burgomaster--not right of him--and not right of the others. for the wind blew so hard out of the east, and those fish came out of the same water in which our dead--how shall i say it?--in which our dead--you understand me. [a pause.] it was foolish to think such nonsense. it is our living, and we must not rebel against our living. truus. yes, i know how that is. kneirtje. [quietly darning.] my husband was a fisherman. one out of a thousand. when the lead was dropped he could tell by the taste of the sand where they were. often in the night he'd say we are on the 56th and on the 56th they'd be. and what experiences he had sailing! once he drifted about two days and nights in a boat with two others. that was the time they were taking in the net and a fog came up so thick they couldn't see the buoys, let alone find the lugger. two days and nights without food. later when the boat went to pieces--you should have heard him tell it--how he and old dirk swam to an overturned rowboat; he climbed on top. "i'll never forget that night," said he. dirk was too old or tired to get a hold. then my husband stuck his knife into the boat. dirk tried to grasp it as he was sinking, and he clutched in such a way that three of his fingers hung down. yes! yes! it all happened. then at the risk of his own life, my husband pulled dirk up onto the overturned boat. so the two of them drifted in the night, and dirk--old dirk--from loss of blood or from fear, went insane. he sat and glared at my husband with the eyes of a cat. he raved of the devil that was in him. of satan, and the blood, my husband said, ran all over the boat--the waves were kept busy washing it away. just at dawn dirk slipped off, insane as he was. my man was picked up by a freighter that sailed by. but it was no use, three years later--that's twelve years ago now--the clementine--named after you by your father--stranded on the doggerbanks with him and my two oldest. of what happened to them, i know nothing, nothing at all. never a buoy, or a hatch, washed ashore. nothing more, nothing. you can't realize it at first, but after so many years one can't recall their faces any more, and that's a blessing. for hard it would be if one remembered. now, i've told my story. every sailor's wife has something like this in her family, it's not new. truus is right: "the fish are dearly paid for." are you crying, miss? clementine. [bursting out.] god! if any ships should go down tonight. kneirtje. we are all in god's hands, and god is great and good. jo. [springing up wildly.] ships go down! ships go down! the one howls. the other cries. i wish i'd sat alone tonight. [beating her head with her fists.] you're all driving me mad, mad, mad! clementine. [amazed.] jo, what ails you? jo. [passionately.] her husband and her little brother--and my poor uncle--those horrible stories--instead of cheering us up! ask me now for my story! [shrieking.] my father was drowned, drowned, drowned, drowned! there are others--all--drowned, drowned!--and--you are all miserable wretches--you are! [violently bangs the door shut as she runs out.] truus. [anxiously.] i believe she's afraid. marietje. shall i go after her? kneirtje. no, child, she will quiet down by herself. nervous strain of the last two days. are you going now, miss? clementine. it has grown late, kneir, and your niece--your niece was a little unmannerly. no, i'm not offended. who is going to take me home? saart. if one goes, we all go. together we won't blow away. good night, kneir. marietje. [depressed.] good night, aunt kneir. kneirtje. thank you again, miss, for the soup and eggs. truus. are you coming to drink a bowl with me tomorrow night? please say yes. kneirtje. well, perhaps. good night, miss. good night, marietje. good night, saart. if you see jo send her in at once. [all go out except kneirtje. she clears away the cups. a fierce wind howls, shrieking about the house. she listens anxiously at the window, shoves her chair close to the chimney, stares into the fire. her lips move in a muttered prayer while she fingers a rosary. jo enters, drops into a chair by the window and nervously unpins her shawl.] kneirtje. you'd better go to bed. you are all unstrung. what an outburst! and that dear child that came out in the storm to bring me soup and eggs. jo. [roughly.] your sons are out in the storm for her and her father. kneirtje. and for us. jo. and for us. [a silence.] the sea is so wild. kneirtje. have you been to look? jo. [anxiously.] i couldn't stand against the wind. half the guard rail is washed away, the pier is under water. [a silence. kneirtje prays.] oh! oh! i'm dead from those miserable stories! kneirtje. you're not yourself tonight. you never went on like this when geert sailed with the navy. go to bed and pray. prayer is the only consolation. a sailor's wife must not be weak. in a month or two it will storm again; each time again. and there are many fishermen on the sea besides our boys. [her speech sinks into a soft murmur. her old fingers handle the rosary.] jo. barend, we almost drove him away! i taunted him to the last. [seeing that kneirtje prays, she walks to the window wringing her hands, pulls up the curtain uncertainly, stares through the window panes. then she cautiously opens a window shutter. the wind blows the curtain on high, the lamp dances, the light puffs out. she swiftly closes the window.] kneirtje. [angry from fear.] have you gone crazy! keep your paws off that window! jo. [moaning.] oh! oh! oh!---kneirtje. [terrified.] shut your mouth! look for the matches! not so slow! quick! beside the soap dish. [a silence.] have you got them? [jo lights the lamp, shivering with fear.] i'm completely chilled. [to jo, who crouches sobbing by the chimney.] why do you sit there? jo. i'm afraid. kneirtje. [anxiously.] you must not be. jo. if anything happens--then--then---kneirtje. be sensible. undress yourself. jo. no, i shall stay here all night. kneirtje. now, i ask you, how will it be when you're married? when you are a mother yourself? jo. [passionately.] you don't know what you say! you don't know what you say, aunt kneir! if geert--[stops, panting.] i didn't dare tell you. kneirtje. is it between you and geert? [jo sobs loudly.] that was not good of you--not good--to have secrets. your lover--your husband--is my son. [a silence, the wind shrieks.] don't stare that way into the fire. don't cry any more. i shall not speak any hard words. even if it was wrong of you and of him. come and sit opposite to me, then together we will--[lays her prayerbook on the table.] jo. [despairingly.] i don't want to pray. kneirtje. don't want to pray? jo. [excitedly.] if anything happens---kneirtje. [vehemently.] nothing will happen! jo. [wildly.] if anything--anything--anything--then i'll never pray again, never again. then there is no god. no mother mary--then there is nothing--nothing---kneirtje. [anxiously.] don't talk like that. jo. what good is a child without a husband! kneirtje. how dare you say that? jo. [beating her head on the table.] the wind! it drives me mad, mad! kneirtje. [opens the prayerbook, touches jo's arm. jo looks up, sobbing passionately, sees the prayerbook, shakes her head fiercely. again wailing, drops to the floor, which she beats with her hands. kneirtje's trembling voice sounds.] oh merciful god! i trust! with a firm faith, i trust. [the wind races with wild lashings about the house.] curtain. act iv. [an old-fashioned office. left, office door, separated from the main office by a wooden railing. between this door and railing are two benches; an old cupboard. in the background; three windows with view of the sunlit sea. in front of the middle window a standing desk and high stool. right, writing table with telephone--a safe, an inside door. on the walls, notices of wreckage, insurance, maps, etc. in the center a round iron stove.] [kaps, bos and mathilde discovered.] mathilde. clemens!---kaps. [reading, with pipe in his mouth.] "the following wreckage, viz.: 2,447 ribs, marked kusta; ten sail sheets, marked 'm. s. g.'" mathilde. stop a moment, kaps. kaps. "four deck beams, two spars, five"---mathilde. [giving him a tap.] finish your reading later. kaps. yes, mevrouw. bos. [impatiently.] i have no time now. mathilde. then make time. i have written the circular for the tower bell. say, ring up the burgomaster. bos. [ringing impatiently.] quick! connect me with the burgomaster! yes! this damn bother while i'm busy. up to my ears in--[sweetly.] are you there? my little wife asks---mathilde. if mevrouw will come to the telephone about the circular. bos. [irritably.] yes! yes! not so long drawn--[sweetly.] if mevrouw will come to the telephone a moment? just so, burgomaster,--the ladies--hahaha! that's a good one. [curtly.] now? what do you want to say? cut it short. [to mathilde.] mathilde. here, read this circular out loud. then it can go to the printers. bos. [angrily.] that whole sheet! are you crazy? do you think i haven't anything on my mind! that damned---mathilde. keep your temper! kaps!---bos. go to hell! [sweetly.] yes, mevrouw. tomorrow. my wife? no, she can't come to the telephone herself, she doesn't know how. [irritably.] where is the rag? hurry up! [reaches out hand for paper. mathilde hands it to him.] my wife has written the circular for the tower bell. are you listening? [reads.] "date, postmark, mm." what did you say? you would rather have l. s.? yes, yes, quite right. do you hear? [reads.] "you are no doubt acquainted with the new church."--she says, "no," the stupid! i am reading, mevrouw, again. "you are no doubt acquainted with the new church. the church has, as you know, a high tower; that high tower points upward, and that is good, that is fortunate, and truly necessary for many children of our generation"---mathilde. read more distinctly. bos. [to mathilde.] shut your mouth. pardon, i was speaking to my bookkeeper. [in telephone.] yes--yes--ha, ha, ha--[reads again from paper.] "but that tower could do something else that also is good. yes, and very useful. it can mark the time for us children of the times. that it does not do. it stands there since 1882 and has never answered to the question, 'what time is it?' that it should do. it was indeed built for it, there are four places visible for faces; for years in all sorts of ways"--did you say anything? no?--"for years the wish has been expressed by the surrounding inhabitants that they might have a clock--about three hundred guilders are needed. who will help? the committee, mevrouw"--what did you say? yes, you know the names, of course. yes, very nicely worded? yes--yes--all the ladies of the committee naturally sign for the same amount, a hundred guilders each? yes--yes--very well--my wife will be at home, mevrouw. [rings off angrily.] damned nonsense!--a hundred guilders gone to the devil! what is it to you if there's a clock on the damn thing or not? mathilde. [turns away.] i'll let you fry in your own fat. bos. she'll be here in her carriage in quarter of an hour. mathilde. bejour! bejour! if you drank less grog in the evenings you wouldn't have such a bad temper in the mornings. just hand me five guilders. bos. no, no! you took five guilders out of my purse this morning while i was asleep. i can keep no---mathilde. i take a rix dollar! what an infamous lie. just one guilder! bah, what a man, who counts his money before he goes to bed! bos. bejour! bejour! mathilde. very well, don't give it--then i can treat the burgomaster's wife to a glass of gin presently--three jugs of old gin and not a single bottle of port or sherry! [bos angrily throws down two rix dollars.] say, am i your servant? if it wasn't for me you wouldn't be throwing rix dollars around!--bah! [goes off angrily.] kaps. [reading.] ijmuiden, 24 december--today there were four sloops in the market with 500 to 800 live and 1,500 to 2,100 dead haddock and some--live cod--the live cod brought 7 1/4--the dead---bos. haven't you anything else to do? kaps. the dead haddock brought thirteen and a half guilders a basket. bos. [knocking on the desk.] i know all that! here, take hold! take your book--turn to the credit page of the expectation---kaps. [looking.] the jacoba? no, the queen wilhelmina? no, the mathilde? no--the good hope?--we can whistle for her. the expectation? bos. what was the gross total? kaps. fourteen hundred and forty-three guilders and forty-seven cents. bos. i thought so. how could you be so ungodly stupid, to deduct four guilders, 88, for the widows and orphans' fund? kaps. let's see. [figuring.]--1,443--3 per cent off--that's 1,400--that's gross three hundred and 87 guilders--yes, it should be three guilders, 88, instead of four, 88. bos. [rising.] if you're going into your dotage, jackass! you can go. your errors are always on the wrong side! kaps. [with a knowing laugh.] there might be something to say against that, meneer--you didn't go after me when, when---bos. now, that'll do, that'll do!---kaps. and that was an error with a couple of big ciphers after it. [bos goes off impatiently at right.] hehehe! it all depends on what side---[looks around, sees bos is gone, pokes up the fire; fills his pipe from bos's tobacco jar, carefully steals a couple of cigars from his box.] simon. [entering.] is bos here? kaps. mynheer bos, eh?--no. simon. is he out? kaps. can't you give me the message? simon. i ask you, is he out? kaps. yes. simon. no tidings? kaps. no. has this running back and forth begun again? meneer said that when he got news, he---simon. it will be nine weeks tomorrow. kaps. the jacoba came in after fifty-nine days' lost time. simon. you are--you know more than you let on. kaps. are you loaded already? simon. not a drop. kaps. then it's time--i know more, eh? i'm holding off the ships by ropes, eh? simon. i warned you folks when that ship lay in the docks. what were the words i spoke then, eh? kaps. [shrugging his shoulders.] all tales on your part for a glass of gin! simon. you lie. you was there, and the miss was there. i says, "the ship is rotten, that caulking was damn useless. that a floating coffin like that"---kaps. good! that's what you said. i don't deny it. what of it? are you so clever that when you're half drunk---simon. [angry.] that's a damned lie! kaps. not drunk then, are you such an authority, you a shipmaster's assistant, that when you say "no," and the owner and the insurance company say "yes," my employer must put his ship in the dry docks? simon. damned rot! i warned you! and now, i say--now, i say--that if mees, my daughter's betrothed, not to speak of the others, if mees--there will be murder. kaps. you make me laugh! go get yourself a dram and talk sense. [enter marietje.] simon. better have stayed outside. no tidings. marietje. [softly sobbing.] no tidings. simon. murder will come of it. [both off.] bos. [enters.] who's here? kaps. simon and his daughter. threats! are you going out? bos. threats! is the fellow insane? i'll be back in ten minutes. whoever comes must wait. kaps. he spoke of---bos. i don't care to hear! [off.] kaps. [goes back to his desk; the telephone rings. he solemnly listens at the receiver.] can't understand you. i am the bookkeeper. mynheer will be back in ten minutes. ring up again. [enter saart.] saart. good day, my dear. kaps. you here again? what do you want? saart. i want you--jesus! what a cold wind! may i warm my hands a moment? kaps. stay on that side of the railing. saart. sweet beast! you make me tired. mynheer bos just went round the corner. [warms herself.] no use asking about the hope. jesus! seven families. how lucky that outside of the children there were three unmarried men on board. nothing washed ashore anywhere? kaps. no, no! saart. now, don't eat me up. kaps. i wish you'd stay behind the railing. what do you want? saart. [looking in his pocket.] look out! or you'll break meneer's cigars. old thief! [he smiles.] kaps, do you want to make a guilder? kaps. that depends. saart. i'm engaged to bol, the skipper. kaps. i congratulate you! saart. he's lying here, with a load of peat for the city. now, how can i marry him? kaps. how can you? saart. i can't; because they don't know if my husband's dead. kaps. the legal limit is---saart. i know that much myself. kaps. you must summons him, 'pro deo,' three times in the papers and if he doesn't come then, and that he'll not do, for there aren't any more ghosts in the world, then you can---saart. now, if you'd attend to this little matter, bol and i would always be grateful to you. kaps. that is lawyer's business. you must go to the city for that. saart. gracious, what botheration! when your common sense tells you i haven't seen jacob in three years and the---[cobus enters, trembling with agitation.] cob. there are tidings! there are tidings! kaps. tidings? what are you telling us? cob. [almost crying.] there must be tidings of the boys--of--of--the hope. kaps. nothing! [friendlier.] now, there is no use in your coming to this office day after day. i haven't any good news to give you, the bad you already know. sixty-two days---cob. the water bailiff received a telegram. ach, ach, ach; meneer kaps, help us out of this uncertainty. my sister--and my niece--are simply insane with grief. [trembling violently.] kaps. on my word of honor. are you running away again? cob. my niece is sitting alone at home--my sister is at the priest's, cleaning house. there must be something--there must be something. kaps. who made you believe that? cob. the water bailiff's clerk said--said--ach, dear god----[off.] saart. perhaps he is right. kaps. everything is possible. saart. has meneer bos any hope? kaps. hope? nine weeks! that old ship! after that storm--all things are possible. no, i wouldn't give a cent for it. provisions for six weeks. if they had run into an english harbor, we would have had tidings. clementine. [enters.] good day, saart. are there visitors inside, kaps? kaps. [looking through window.] the burgomaster's carriage. committee meeting for the clock. a new span. i wish i had their money. clementine. [laying her sketch book on kaps's desk.] i saw cobus go by. poor thing! how he has aged. i hardly recognized him. [opening the sketch book.] look. that's the way he was three months ago, hale and jolly. you may look, too, kaps. kaps. no, miss, i haven't the time. saart. daantje's death was a blow to him--you always saw them together, always discussing. now he hasn't a friend in the "home"; that makes a big difference. clementine. do you recognize these? saart. well, that's kneir, that's barend with the basket on his back, and that's--[the telephone bell rings. clementine closes her book.] kaps. meneer is out. they rang once before. clementine. [listening at telephone.] yes!--papa isn't here. how long will he be, kaps? kaps. two or three minutes. clementine. [startled.] what did you say? a hatch marked 47--and--[trembling.]--i don't understand you. [screams and lets the receiver fall.] kaps. what's that? what's that? clementine. [painfully shocked.] i don't dare listen--oh, oh! kaps. was that the water bailiff? clementine. [passionately.] barend washed ashore. oh god, now it is ended! saart. barend?----barend?---clementine. a telegram from nieuwediep. a hatch--and a corpse---[enter bos.] bos. what's going on here? why are you crying? kaps. tidings of the good hope. bos. tidings? kaps. the water bailiff is on the 'phone. bos. the water bailiff?--step aside--go along, you! what are you gaping at? saart. i--i--[goes timidly off.] bos. [ringing.] hello! who is that? the water bailiff? a telegram from nieuwediep? north of the hook? i don't understand a word! stop your howling! a hatch, you say? 47?--well, that's damned--miserable--that! the corpse--advanced stage of decomposition! barend--mustered in as oldest boy! recognized by who? by--oh!--the expectation has come into nieuwediep disabled? and did skipper maatsuiker recognize him? earrings? yes, yes, silver earrings. no, never mind that. so it isn't necessary to send any one from here for the identification? yes, damned sad--yes--yes--we are in god's hand--yes--yes--i no longer had any doubts--thank you--yes--i'd like to get the official report as soon as possible. i will inform the underwriters, bejour! [hangs up the receiver.] i'm simply dead! twelve men! kaps. barend? kneirtje's son? washed ashore? that's--that's a wonder. i never expected to hear of the ship again. with the clementine. bos. [angrily.] yes--yes--yes--yes--[to clementine.] go inside to your mother! what stupidity to repeat what you heard in that woman's presence. it won't be five minutes now till half the village is here! don't you understand me? you sit there, god save me, and take on as if your lover was aboard---clementine. why didn't you listen? [sobs softly.] bos. listen! clementine. when simon, the shipbuilder's assistant---bos. the fellow was drunk. clementine. [firmly.] he was not! bos. he was, too! and if he hadn't been, what right have you to stick your nose into matters you don't understand? clementine. dear god, now i am also guilty---bos. [angrily.] guilty? guilty! have the novels you read gone to your head? guilty! are you possessed, to use those words after such an accident? clementine. he said that the ship was a floating coffin. then i heard you say that in any case it would be the last voyage for the hope. bos. [angrily at first.] that damned boarding school; those damned boarding school fads! walk if you like through the village like a fool, sketching the first rascal or beggar you meet! but don't blab out things you can be held to account for. a floating coffin! say, rather, a drunken authority--the north, of pieterse, and the surprise and the willem iii and the young john. i can keep on naming them. half of the fishing fleet and half the merchant fleet are floating coffins. did you hear that, kaps? kaps. [timidly.] no, meneer, i don't hear anything. bos. if you had asked me: "father, how is this?" i would have explained it to you. but you conceited young people meddle with everything and more, too! what stronger proof is there than the yearly inspection of the ships by the underwriters? do you suppose that when i presently ring up the underwriter and say to him, "meneer, you can plank down fourteen hundred guilders"--that he does that on loose grounds? you ought to have a face as red as a buoy in shame for the way you flapped out your nonsense! nonsense, i say! nonsense; that might take away my good name, if i wasn't so well known. clementine. [sadly.] if i were a ship owner--and i heard---bos. god preserve the fishery from an owner who makes drawings and cries over pretty vases! i stand as a father at the head of a hundred homes. business is business. when you get sensitive you go head over heels. what, kaps? [kaps makes a motion that he cannot hear.] now, go to your mother. the burgomaster's wife is making a call. kaps. here is the muster roll. [reading.] willem hengst, aged thirty-seven, married, four children---bos. wait a moment till my daughter---clementine. i won't speak another word. kaps. [reading on.] jacob zwart, aged thirty-five years, married, three children. gerrit plas, aged twenty-five years, married, one child. geert vermeer, unmarried, aged twenty-six years. nellis boom, aged thirty-five years, married, seven children. klaas steen, aged twenty-four years, married. solomon bergen, aged twenty-five years, married, one child. mari stad, aged forty-five years, married. mees, aged nineteen years. jacob boom, aged twenty years. barend vermeer, aged nineteen years. pietje stappers, aged twelve years. bos. [cast down.] seven homes. clementine. sixteen children. [enter truus and marietje.] truus. [panting.] are there tidings? tidings of my little son? [wild despair.] ach, god! ach, god; don't make me unhappy, meneer!---bos. i'm sorry, mrs. stappers---marietje. [shrieking.] it can't be! it can't be! you lie!--it isn't possible!---bos. [gently.] the burgomaster at nieuwediep has telegraphed the water bailiff. barend vermeer was washed ashore. you know what that means, and a hatch of the 47---truus. [loudly.] oh, mother mary, must i lose that child, too? that lamb of twelve years! [with a whimpering cry.] oh, oh, oh, oh! oh, oh, oh, oh!--pietje--pietje---marietje. [bewildered.] then--then--[bursts into a hysterical laugh.] hahaha!--hahaha!---bos. give her a glass of water. marietje. [striking the glass from clementine's hand.] go away! go away! [falling on her knees, her hands catching hold of the railing gate.] let me die!--let me die, please, dear god, dear god! clementine. [sobbing.] come marietje, be calm; get up. truus. on his first voyage. and so brave; as he stood there, waving, when the ship--[sobs loudly.] bos. it can't be helped, truus. it is a visitation. there hasn't been a storm like that in years. think of hengst with four children, and jacob and gerrit--and, although it's no consolation, i will hand you your boy's wages today, if you like. both of you go home now and resign yourselves to the inevitable--take her with you--she seems---marietje. [with trembling sobs.] i don't want to go home. i want to die, die---clementine. [supporting her.] cry, marietje, cry, poor lamb---[they go off.] bos. [angrily walking back and forth.] what's the matter with you? are you too lazy to put pen to paper today? you needn't answer! have you the widows' and orphans' fund at hand? well! kaps. [shuffling to the safe.] the top drawer is still locked. [bos throws him the keys.] oh, thank you. [opens the safe, shuffles back to bos's desk with the book.] if you please, meneer. bos. ninety-five widows, fourteen old sailors and fishermen. kaps. yes, the fund fell short some time ago. we will have to put in another appeal. mathilde. [entering.] clemens, what a misfortune! the burgomaster's wife asks if you will come in for a moment. she sits there crying. bos. no! crying enough here. no time! mathilde. ach! ach! kaps, here is the copy for the circular. hurry, do you hear! bos. talk to her about making a public appeal for the unfortunates. mathilde. yes, but, clemens, isn't that overdoing it, two begging parties? bos. i will do it myself, then--[both exit.] clementine. [enters. softly weeping.] kaps! kaps! [goes to his desk and sits down opposite to him.] i feel so miserable---kaps. very unwise, miss. many ships go down. the good hope scarcely counts. i have it here. where is it? where is it? the statement of veritas for october--october alone; lost, 105 sailing vessels and 30 steamships--that's a low estimate; fifteen hundred dead in one month. [pointing to the sea.] yes, when you see it as it appears today, so smooth, with the floating gulls, you wouldn't believe that it murders so many people. [enter jo and cobus.] clementine. [to jo and cobus, who sit alone in a dazed way.] come in, jo. jo! [jo slowly shakes her head.] cob. [trembling.] we have just run from home--for saart just as i said--just as i said---[enter bos.] bos. [to jo.] here, sit down. [shoves a chair by the stove.] you stay where you are, cobus. you have no doubt heard?---jo. [sobbing.] about barend? yes, but geert! it happens so often that they get off in row boats. bos. i can't give you that consolation. not only was there a hatch, but the corpse was in an extreme state of dissolution. jo. [anxiously.] yes! yes! but if it shouldn't be barend. who says it was barend? bos. skipper maatsuiker of the expectation identified him, and the earrings. jo. maatsuiker? maatsuiker? and if--he should be mistaken----i've come to ask you for money, meneer, so i can go to the helder myself. bos. come, that's foolish! jo. [crying.] barend must be buried any way. bos. the burgomaster of nieuwediep will take care of that---[enter simon.] simon. [drunk.] i--i--heard----[makes a strong gesture towards bos.] bos. [nervous vehemence.] get out, you drunken sot! simon. [stammering.] i--i--won't murder you. i--i--have no evil intentions---bos. [trembling.] send for a policeman, kaps. must that drunken fellow---simon. [steadying himself by holding to the gate.] no--stay where you are--i'm going--i--i--only wanted to say how nicely it came out--with--with--the good hope. bos. you get out, immediately! simon. don't come so close to me--never come so close to a man with a knife----no-o-o-o--i have no bad intentions. i only wanted to say, that i warned you--when--she lay in the docks. bos. you lie, you rascal! simon. now just for the joke of it--you ask--ask--ask your bookkeeper and your daughter--who were there---bos. [vehemently.] that's a lie. you're not worth an answer, you sot! i have nothing to do with you! my business is with your employer. did you understand me, kaps? simon. my employer--doesn't do the caulking himself. [to kaps, who has advanced to the gate.] didn't i warn him?--wasn't you there? kaps. [looking anxiously at bos.] no, i wasn't there, and even if i was, i didn't hear anything. bos. [to clementine.] and now, you! did that drunken sot---clementine. [almost crying with anxiety.] papa! bos. [threatening.] as my daughter do you permit----[grimly.] answer me! clementine. [anxiously.] i don't remember---simon. that's low--that's low--damned low! i said, the ship was rotten--rotten---bos. a drunken man's stories. you're trying to drag in my bookkeeper and daughter, and you hear---cob. yes, but--yes, but--now i remember also---bos. by thunder! you warned us too, eh? cob. no, no, that would be lying. but your daughter--your daughter says now that she hadn't heard the ship was rotten. and on the second night of the storm, when she was alone with me at my sister kneirtje's, she did say that--that---clementine. [trembling.] did i--say---cob. yes, that you did! that very evening. these are my own words to you: "now you are fibbing, miss; for if your father knew the good hope was rotten"---jo. [springing up wildly, speaking with piercing distinctness.] you, you lie! you began to cry. you were afraid ships would be lost. i was there, and truus was there, and----oh, you adders! bos. [banging his desk with his fist.] adders? adders? you scum! who gives you your feed, year in, year out? haven't you decency enough to believe us instead of that drunken beggar who reels as he stands there? jo. [raving with anger.] believe you? you! she lies and you lie! bos. [threatening.] get out of my office! jo. you had barend dragged on board by the police; geert was too proud to be taken! thief! thief! [overwrought, hysterical laugh.] no, no, you needn't point to your door! we are going. if i staid here any longer i would spit in your face--spit in your face! [makes threatening gesture.] cob. [restraining her.] come--come---bos. [after a silence.] for your aunt's sake i will consider that you are overwrought; otherwise--otherwise----the good hope was seaworthy, was seaworthy! have i no loss? even if the ship was insured? and even had the fellow warned me--which is a lie, could i, a business man, take the word of a drunkard who can no longer get a job because he is unable to handle tools? simon. [stammering.] i--i told you and him and her--that a floating coffin like that. that stands fast! jo. [bursting out.] oh! oh! geert and barend and mees and the others! oh god, how could you allow it! [sinks on the chair sobbing.] give me the money to go to nieuwediep myself, then i won't speak of it any more. bos. [vindictively.] no! not a red cent! a girl that talks to me as rudely as you did---jo. [confused, crying.] i don't know what i said--and--and--i don't believe that you--that you--that you would be worse than the devil. bos. the water-bailiff says that it isn't necessary to send any one to nieuwediep. jo. [staggering to the door.] not necessary! not necessary! what will become of me now?---[cobus and simon follow her out.] [bos walks back and forth. kaps creeps up on his stool.] bos. [to clementine.] and you--don't you ever dare to set foot again in my office. clementine. [with a terrified look.] no, never again. [a long pause.] father, i ask myself [bursts into sobs.] how i can ever again respect you? ever again respect myself? [exits.] bos. crazy! she would be capable of ruining my good name--with her boarding-school whims. who ever comes now you send away, understand? trash! rabble! that whole set are no good! that damned drunkard! that fellow that stinks of gin! [sound of jelle's fiddle outside.] that too? [at the window.] go on! no, not a cent! [the music stops.] i am simply worn out. [falls into his chair, takes up clementine's sketch book; spitefully turns the leaves; throws it on the floor; stoops, jerks out a couple of leaves, tears them up. sits in thought a moment, then rings the telephone.] hello! with dirksen--dirksen, i say, the underwriter! [waits, looking sombre.] hello! are you there, dirksen? it's all up with the good hope. a hatch with my mark washed ashore and the body of a sailor. [changing to quarrelsome tone.] what do you say? i should say not! no question of it! sixty-two days! the probabilities are too small. [calmer.] good! i shall wait for you here at my office. but be quick about it! yes, fourteen hundred guilders. bejour. [rings off; at the last words kneirtje has entered.] kneirtje. [absently.] i----[she sinks on the bench, patiently weeping.] bos. [at the safe, without seeing her.] have you mislaid the policies? you never put a damn thing in its place. kaps. [pointing from his stool.] the policies are higher, behind the stocks. bos. [snappishly.] all right, shut your mouth, now! [turning around with the policies in his hand.] why don't you knock? kneirtje. i wanted to---bos. [peevishly.] you've come five minutes too late. that hussy that lives with you has been in here kicking up such a scandal that i came near telephoning for the police. [crossly.] come in. close the gate after you. kneirtje. [speaking with difficulty.] is it true--is it true that----the priest said----[bos nods with a sombre expression.] oh, oh----[she stares helplessly, her arms hang limp.] bos. i have sympathy for you. i know you as a respectable woman--and your husband too. but your children! i'm sorry to have to say it to you now after such a blow, your children and that niece of yours have never been any good. [kneirtje's head sinks down.] how many years haven't we had you around, until your son geert threatened me with his fists, mocked my grey hairs, and all but threw me out of your house--and your other son----[frightened.] kneirtje! kneirtje! [rising.] kaps! water! [bathing her forehead and wrists.] i'll be damned! i'll be damned! kaps. shall i call mevrouw or your daughter? bos. no! stay here! she's coming to. [kneir. with long drawn out sobs, sits looking before her with a dazed stare.] kaps. kneir---bos. keep still! let her have her cry. kneirtje. [in an agonized voice, broken with sobs.] he didn't want to go! he didn't want to go! and with my own hands i loosened his fingers from the door post. [moans softly.] bos. [in a muffled voice.] you have no cause to reproach yourself---kneirtje. [in the same voice as before.] before he went i hung his father's rings in his ears. like--like a lamb to the slaughter---bos. come---kneirtje. [panting.] and my oldest boy that i didn't bid good bye----"if you're too late"--these were his words--"i'll never look at you again."--"never look at you again!" bos. [strongly moved.] stop! in god's name, stop!---kneirtje. twelve years ago--when the clementine--i sat here as i am now. [sobs with her face between her trembling old hands.] bos. come now, be strong. [mathilde enters.] mathilde. clemens! ach, poor, dear kneir, i am so sorry for you. it's dreadful! it is frightful! two sons! kneirtje. [staring.] my husband and four sons---mathilde. [consoling.] but don't you worry. we have written an appeal, the burgomaster's wife and i, and it's going to be in all the papers tomorrow. here, kaps----[hands kaps a sheet of paper which he places on desk--bos motions to her to go.] let her wait a while, clemens. [sweetly.] i have a couple of cold chops--that will brace her up--and--and--let's make up with her. you have no objections to her coming again to do the cleaning? we won't forget you, do you hear? good day, kneir. be brave. [exits.] bos. no, we will not forget you. kneirtje. now, my only hope is--my niece's child. bos. [surprised.] a child? kneirtje. that misfortune is added. she is with child by my son----[softly smiling.] misfortune? no, that isn't a misfortune now---bos. and you sit and tell that? this immorality under your own roof? don't you know the rules of the fund, that no aid can be extended to anyone leading an immoral life, or whose conduct does not meet with our approval? kneirtje. [submissive voice.] i leave it to the gentlemen themselves--to do for me--the gentlemen---bos. it will be a tussle with the committee--the committee of the fund--your son had been in prison and sang revolutionary songs. and your niece who----however, i will do my best. i shall recommend you, but i can't promise anything. there are seven new families, awaiting aid, sixteen new orphans. [rising and closing the safe.] no, sit awhile longer. my wife wants to give you something to take home with you. [exits.] mathilde. [invisible.] kaps! kaps! [the bookkeeper rises, disappears for a moment, and returns with a dish and an enamelled pan.] kaps. [kindly.] if you will return the dish when it's convenient, and if you'll come again saturday, to do the cleaning. [she stares vacantly. he closes her nerveless hands about the dish and pan; shuffles back to his stool. a silence. kneirtje sits motionless, in dazed agony; mumbles--moves her lips--rises with difficulty, stumbles out of the office.] kaps. [taking up sheet of paper from desk.] appeal, for the newspapers! [smiling sardonically, he comes to the foreground; leaning on bos's desk, he reads.] "benevolent fellow countrymen: again we urge upon your generosity an appeal in behalf of a number of destitute widows and orphans. the lugger good hope----[as he continues reading.] curtain. michael penguyne; fisher life on the cornish coast, by william h g kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ in this rather short book kingston tells us of the hard life and its few pleasures of the fisher-folk of cornwall. gales and a forbidding coast-line can often spell disaster to the poor fisherman caught out in a rising tempest. yet throughout this he and his family, with few exceptions, remain steadfast and god-fearing, with relatives springing to the aid of orphans and wives following a tragedy. kingston is here at his most persuasively christian, arguing that both the good things of life and the bad, are dealt out to us by an all-seeing fatherlike god. it does not take long to read, but you will certainly enjoy it. as it probably didn't take long to write it is not one of kingston's great masterpieces, but it is certainly worth taking note of. ________________________________________________________________________ michael penguyne, fisher life on the cornish coast, by william h g kingston. chapter one. as the sun rose over the lizard, the southernmost point of old england, his rays fell on the tanned sails of a fleet of boats bounding lightly across the heaving waves before a fresh westerly breeze. the distant shore, presenting a line of tall cliffs, towards which the boats were steering, still lay in the deepest shade. each boat was laden with a large heap of nets and several baskets filled with brightly-shining fish. in the stern of one, tiller in hand, sat a strongly-built man, whose deeply-furrowed countenance and grizzled hair showed that he had been for many a year a toiler on the ocean. by his side was a boy of about twelve years of age, dressed in flushing coat and sou'wester, busily employed with a marline-spike, in splicing an eye to a rope's-end. the elder fisherman, now looking up at his sails, now stooping down to get a glance beneath them at the shore, and then turning his head towards the south-west, where heavy clouds were gathering fast, meanwhile cast an approving look at the boy. "ye are turning in that eye smartly and well, michael," he said. "whatever you do, try and do it in that fashion. it has been my wish to teach you what is right as well as i know it. try not only to please man, my boy, but to love and serve god, whose eye is always on you. don't forget the golden rule either: `do to others as you would they should do to you.'" "i have always wished to understand what you have told me, and tried to obey you, father," said the boy. "you have been a good lad, michael, and have more than repaid me for any trouble you may have caused me. you are getting a big boy now, though, and it's time that you should know certain matters about yourself which no one else is so well able to tell you as i am." the boy looked up from his work, wondering what paul trefusis was going to say. "you know, lad, that you are called michael penguyne, and that my name is paul trefusis. has it never crossed your mind that though i have always treated you as a son--and you have ever behaved towards me as a good and dutiful son should behave--that you were not really my own child?" "to say the truth, i have never thought about it, father," answered the boy, looking up frankly in the old man's face. "i am oftener called trefusis than penguyne, so i fancied that penguyne was another name tacked on to michael, and that trefusis was just as much my name as yours. and oh! father, i would rather be your child than the son of anybody else." "there is no harm in wishing that, michael; but it's as well that you should know the real state of the case, and as i cannot say what may happen to me, i do not wish to put off telling you any longer. i am not as strong and young as i once was, and maybe god will think fit to take me away before i have reached the threescore years and ten which he allows some to live. we should not put off doing to another time what can be done now, and so you see i wish to say what has been on my mind to tell you for many a day past, though i have not liked to say it, lest it should in any way grieve you. you promise me, michael, you won't let it do that? you know how much i and granny and nelly love you, and will go on loving you as much as ever." "i know you do, father, and so do granny and nelly; i am sure they love me," said the boy gazing earnestly into paul's face, with wonder and a shade of sorrow depicted on his own countenance. "that's true," said paul. "but about what i was going to say to you. "my wife, who is gone to heaven, nelly's mother, and i, never had another child but her. your father, michael, as true-hearted a seaman as ever stepped, had been my friend and shipmate for many a long year. we were bred together, and had belonged to the same boat fishing off this coast till we were grown men, when at last we took it into our heads to wish to visit foreign climes, and so we went to sea together. after knocking about for some years, and going to all parts of the world, we returned home, and both fell in love, and married. your mother was an orphan, without kith or kin, that your father could hear of--a good, pretty girl she was, and worthy of him. "we made up our minds that we would stay on shore and follow our old calling and look after our wives and families. we had saved some money, but it did not go as far as we thought it would, and we agreed that if we could make just one more trip to sea, we should gain enough for what we wanted. "you were about two years old, and my nelly was just born. "we went to falmouth, where ships often put in, wanting hands, and masters are ready to pay good wages to obtain them. we hadn't been there a day, when we engaged on board a ship bound out to the west indies. as she was not likely to be long absent, this just suited us. your father got a berth as third mate, for he was the best scholar, and i shipped as boatswain. "we made the voyage out, and had just reached the chops of the channel, coming back, bound for bristol, and hoping in a few days to be home again with our wives, when thick weather came on, and a heavy gale of wind sprang up. it blew harder and harder. whether or not the captain was out of his reckoning i cannot say, but i suspect he was. before long, our sails were blown away, and our foremast went by the board. we did our best to keep the ship off the shore, for all know well that it is about as dangerous a one as is to be found round england. "the night was dark as pitch, the gale still increasing. "`paul,' said your father to me as we were standing together, `you and i may never see another sun rise; but still one of us may escape. you remember the promise we made each other.' "`yes, michael,' i said, `that i do, and hope to keep it.' "the promise was that if one should be lost and the other saved, he who escaped should look after the wife and family of the one who was lost. "i had scarcely answered him when the look-out forward shouted `breakers ahead!' and before the ship's course could be altered, down she came, crashing on the rocks. it was all up with the craft; the seas came dashing over her, and many of those on deck were washed away. the unfortunate passengers rushed up from below, and in an instant were swept overboard. "the captain ordered the remaining masts to be cut away, to ease the ship; but it did no good, and just as the last fell she broke in two, and all on board were cast into the water, i found myself clinging with your father to one of the masts. the head of the mast was resting on a rock. we made our way along it; i believed that others were following; but just as we reached the rock the mast was carried away, and he and i found that we alone had escaped. "the seas rose up foaming around us, and every moment we expected to be washed away. though we knew many were perishing close around us we had no means of helping them. all we could do was to cling on and try and save our own lives. "`i hope we shall get back home yet, michael,' i said, wishing to cheer your father, for he was more down-hearted than usual. "`i hope so, paul, but i don't know; god's will be done, whatever that will is. paul, you will meet me in heaven, i hope,' he answered, for he was a christian man. `if i am taken, you will look after mary and my boy,' he added. again i promised him, and i knew to a certainty that he would look after my nelly, should he be saved and i drowned. "when the morning came at last scarcely a timber or plank of the wreck was to be seen. what hope of escape had either of us? the foaming waters raged around, and we were half perished with cold and hunger. on looking about i found a small spar washed up on the rock, and, fastening our handkerchiefs together, we rigged out a flag, but there was little chance of a boat putting off in such weather and coming near enough to see it. we now knew that we were not far off the land's end, on one of two rocks called the sisters, with the village of senum abreast of us. "your father and i looked in each other's faces; we felt that there was little hope that we should ever see our wives and infants again. still we spoke of the promise we had made each other--not that there was any need of that, for we neither of us were likely to forget it. "the spring tides were coming on, and though we had escaped as yet, the sea might before long break over the rock and carry us away. even if it did not we must die of hunger and thirst, should no craft come to our rescue. "we kept our eyes fixed on the distant shore; they ached with the strain we put on them, as we tried to make out whether any boat was being launched to come off to us. "a whole day passed--another night came on. we did not expect to see the sun rise again. already the seas as they struck the rock sent the foam flying over us, and again and again washed up close to where we were sitting. "notwithstanding our fears, daylight once more broke upon us, but what with cold and hunger we were well-nigh dead. "your father was a stronger man than i fancied myself, and yet he now seemed most broken down. he could scarcely stand to wave our flag. "the day wore on, the wind veered a few points to the nor'ard, and the sun burst out now and then from among the clouds, and, just as we were giving up all hope, his light fell on the sails of a boat which had just before put off from the shore. she breasted the waves bravely. was she, though, coming towards us? we could not have been seen so far off. still on she came, the wind allowing her to be close-hauled to steer towards the rock. the tide meantime was rapidly rising. if she did not reach us soon, we knew too well that the sea would come foaming over the rock and carry us away. "i stood up and waved our flag. still the boat stood on; the spray was beating in heavy showers over her, and it was as much as she could do to look up to her canvas. sometimes as i watched her i feared that the brave fellows who were coming to our rescue would share the fate which was likely to befall us. she neared the rock. i tried to cheer up your father. "`in five minutes we shall be safe on board, michael,' i said. "`much may happen in five minutes, paul; but you will not forget my mary and little boy,' he answered. "`no fear of that,' i said; `but you will be at home to look after them yourself.' "i tried to cheer as the boat came close to the rock, but my voice failed me. "the sails were lowered and she pulled in. a rope was hove, and i caught it. i was about to make it fast round your father. "`you go first, paul,' he said. `if you reach the boat i will try to follow, but there is no use for me to try now; i should be drowned before i got half way.' "still i tried to secure the rope round him, but he resisted all my efforts. at last i saw that i must go, or we should both be lost, and i hoped to get the boat in nearer and to return with a second rope to help him. "i made the rope fast round my waist and plunged in. i had hard work to reach the boat; i did not know how weak i was. at last i was hauled on board, and was singing out for a rope, when the people in the boat uttered a cry, and looking up i saw a huge sea come rolling along. over the rock it swept, taking off your poor father. i leapt overboard with the rope still round my waist, in the hopes of catching him, but in a moment he was hidden from my sight, and, more dead than alive, i was again hauled on board. "the crew of the boat pulled away from the rock; they knew that all hopes of saving my friend were gone. sail was made, and we stood for the shore. "the people at the village attended me kindly, but many days passed before i was able to move. "as soon as i had got strength enough, with a sad heart i set out homewards. how could i face your poor mother, and tell her that her husband was gone? i would send my own dear wife, i thought, to break the news to her. "as i reached my own door i heard a child's cry; it was that of my little nelly, and granny's voice trying to soothe her. "i peeped in at the window. there sat granny, with the child on her knee, but my wife was not there. she has gone to market, i thought. still my heart sank within me. i gained courage to go in. "`where is nelly?' i asked, as granny, with the baby in her arms, rose to meet me. "`here is the only nelly you have got, my poor paul,' she said, giving me the child. "i felt as if my heart would break. i could not bring myself to ask how or when my wife had died. granny told me, however, for she knew it must be told, and the sooner it was over the better. she had been taken with a fever soon after i had left home. "it was long before i recovered myself. "`i must go and tell the sad news i bring to poor mary,' i said. "granny shook her head. "`she is very bad, it will go well-nigh to kill her outright,' she observed. "i would have got granny to go, but i wanted to tell your poor mother of my promise to your father, and, though it made my heartache, i determined to go myself. "i found her, with you by her side. "`here is father,' you cried out, but your mother looked up, and seemed to know in a moment what had happened. "`where is michael?' she asked. "`you know, mary, your husband and i promised to look after each other's children, if one was taken and the other left; and i mean to keep my promise to look after you and your little boy.' "your mother knew, by what i said, that your father was gone. "`god's will be done,' she murmured; `he knows what is best--i hope soon to be with him.' "before the month was out we carried your poor mother to her grave, and i took you to live with granny and nelly. "there, michael, you know all i can tell you about yourself. i have had hard times now and then, but i have done my duty to you; and i say again, michael, you have always been a good and dutiful boy, and not a fault have i had to find with you." "thank you, father, for saying that; and you will still let me call you father, for i cannot bring myself to believe that i am not really your son." "that i will, michael; a son you have always been to me, and my son i wish you to remain. and, michael, as i have watched over you, so i want you to watch over my little nelly. should i be called away, be a brother and true friend to her, for i know not to what dangers she may be exposed. granny is old, and her years on earth may be few, and when she is gone, michael, nelly will have no one to look to but you. she has no kith nor kin, that i know of, able or willing to take care of her. her mother's brother and only sister went to australia years ago, and no news has ever come of them since, and my brothers found their graves in the deep sea, so that nelly will be alone in the world. that is the only thing that troubles me, and often makes me feel sad when we are away at night, and the wind blows strong and the sea runs high, and i think of the many i have known who have lost their lives in stouter boats than mine. but god is merciful; he has promised to take care of the widow and orphan, and he will keep his word. i know that, and so i again look up and try to drive all mistrustful thoughts of his goodness from my mind." "father, while i have life i will take care of nelly, and pray for her, and, if needs be, fight for her," exclaimed michael. he spoke earnestly and with all sincerity, for he intended, god willing, to keep his word. chapter two. the fleet of fishing-boats as they approached the coast steered in different directions, some keeping towards kynance and landewednach, while paul trefusis shaped his course for mullyan cove, towards the north, passing close round the lofty gull rock, which stands in solitary grandeur far away from the shore, braving the fierce waves as they roll in from the broad atlantic. asparagus island and lion rock opened out to view, while the red and green sides of the precipitous serpentine cliffs could now be distinguished, assuming various fantastic shapes: one shaped into a complete arch, another the form of a gigantic steeple, with several caves penetrating deep into the cliff, on a level with the narrow belt of yellow sand. young michael, though accustomed from his childhood to the wild and romantic scenery, had never passed that way without looking at it with an eye of interest, and wondering how those cliffs and rocks came to assume the curious forms they wore. the little "wild duck," for that was the name paul trefusis had given his boat, continued her course, flying before the fast increasing gale close inshore, to avoid the strong tide which swept away to the southward, till, rounding a point, she entered the mouth of a narrow inlet which afforded shelter to a few boats and small craft. it was a wild, almost savage-looking place, though extremely picturesque. on either side were rugged and broken cliffs, in some parts rising sheer out of the water to the gorse-covered downs above, in others broken in terraces and ledges, affording space for a few fishermen's cottages and huts, which were seen perched here and there, looking down on the tranquil water of the harbour. the inlet made a sharp bend a short distance from its mouth, so that, as paul's boat proceeded upwards, the view of the sea being completely shut out, it bore the appearance of a lake. at the further end a stream of water came rushing down over the summit of the cliffs, dashing from ledge to ledge, now breaking into masses of foam, now descending perpendicularly many feet, now running along a rapid incline, and serving to turn a small flour-mill built a short way up on the side of the cliff above the harbour. steep as were the cliffs, a zigzag road had been cut in them, leading from the downs above almost to the mouth of the harbour, where a rock which rose directly out of the water formed a natural quay, on which the fishing-boats could land their cargoes. beyond this the road was rough and steep, and fitted only for people on foot, or donkeys with their panniers, to go up and down. art had done little to the place. the little "wild duck," a few moments before tossed and tumbled by the angry seas, now glided smoothly along for a few hundred yards, when the sails were lowered, and she floated up to a dock between two rocks. hence, a rough pathway led from one of the cottages perched on the side of the cliff. at a distance it could scarcely have been distinguished from the cliff itself. its walls were composed of large blocks of unhewn serpentine, masses of clay filling up the interstices, while it was roofed with a thick dark thatch, tightly fastened down with ropes, and still further secured by slabs of stone to prevent its being carried away by the fierce blasts which are wont to sweep up and down the ravine in winter. there was space enough on either side of the cottage for a small garden, which appeared to be carefully cultivated, and was enclosed by a stone wall. at the upper part of the pathway a flight of steps, roughly hewn in the rock, led to the cottage door. the door opened as soon as paul's boat rounded the point, and a young girl with a small creel or fish basket at her back was seen lightly tripping down the pathway, followed by an old woman, who, though she supported her steps with a staff, also carried a creel of the ordinary size. she wore a large broad-brimmed black hat, and a gaily-coloured calico jacket over her winsey skirt; an apron, and shoes with metal buckles, completing the ordinary costume of a fish-wife of that district. little nelly was dressed very like her grandmother, except that her feet were bare, and that she had a necklace of small shells round her throat. her face was pretty and intelligent, her well-browned cheeks glowed with the hue of health, her eyes were large and grey, and her black hair, drawn up off her forehead, hung in neat plaits tied with ribbons behind her back. nelly trefusis was indeed a good specimen of a young fisher-girl. she tripped lightly down the pathway, springing to the top of the outermost rock just before her father's boat glided by it, and in an instant stepping nimbly on board, she threw herself into his arms and bestowed a kiss on his weather-beaten brow. michael had leaped on shore to fend off the boat, so that he lost the greeting she would have given him. "you have had a good haul with the nets to-night, father," she said, looking into the baskets; "granny and i can scarce carry half of them to market, and unless abel mawgan the hawker comes in time to buy them, you and michael will have work to do to salt them down." "it is well that we should have had a good haul, nelly, for dirty weather is coming on, and it may be many a day before we are able to cast our nets again," answered paul, looking up affectionately at his child, while he began with a well-practised hand to stow the boat's sail. nelly meantime was filling her creel with fish, that she might lessen the weight of the baskets which her father and michael had to lift on shore. as soon as it was full she stepped back on the rock, giving a kiss to michael as she passed him. the baskets were soon landed, and the creel being filled, she and nelly ascended the hill, followed by paul and michael, who, carrying the baskets between them, brought up the remainder of the fish. breakfast, welcome to those who had been toiling all night, had been placed ready on the table, and leaving paul and his boy to discuss it, polly lanreath, as the old dame was generally called, and her little granddaughter, set off on their long journey over the downs to dispose of their fish at helston, or at the villages and the few gentlemen's houses they passed on their way. it was a long distance for the old woman and girl to go, but they went willingly whenever fish had been caught, for they depended on its sale for their livelihood, and neither paul nor michael could have undertaken the duty, nor would they have sold the fish so well as the dame and nelly, who were welcomed whenever they appeared. their customers knew that they could depend on their word when they mentioned the very hour when the fish were landed. the old dame's tongue wagged cheerfully as she walked along with nelly by her side, and she often beguiled the way with tales and anecdotes of bygone days, and ancient cornish legends which few but herself remembered. nelly listened with eager ears, and stored away in her memory all she heard, and often when they got back in the evening she would beg her granny to recount again for the benefit of her father and michael the stories she had told in the morning. she had a cheerful greeting, too, for all she met; for some she had a quiet joke; for the giddy and careless a word of warning, which came with good effect from one whom all respected. at the cottages of the poor she was always a welcome visitor, while at the houses of the more wealthy she was treated with courtesy and kindness; and many a housewife who might have been doubtful about buying fish that day, when the dame and her granddaughter arrived, made up her mind to assist in lightening nelly's creel by selecting some of its contents. the dame, as her own load decreased, would always insist on taking some of her granddaughter's, deeming that the little maiden had enough to do to trot on so many miles by her side, without having to carry a burden on her back in addition. nelly would declare that she did not feel the weight, but the sturdy old dame generally gained her point, though she might consent to replenish nelly's basket before entering the town, for some of their customers preferred the fish which the bright little damsel offered them for sale to those in her grandmother's creel. thus, though their daily toil was severe, and carried on under summer's sun, or autumn's gales, and winter's rain and sleet, they themselves were ever cheerful and contented, and seldom failed to return home with empty creels and well-filled purses. paul trefusis might thus have been able to lay by a store for the time when the dame could no longer trudge over the country as she had hitherto done, and he unable to put off with nets or lines to catch fish; but often for weeks together the gales of that stormy coast prevented him from venturing to sea, and the vegetables and potatoes produced in his garden, and the few fish he and michael could catch in the harbour, were insufficient to support their little household, so that at the end of each year paul found himself no richer than at the beginning. while nelly and her grandmother and the other women of the village were employed in selling the fish, the men had plenty of occupation during the day in drying and mending their nets, and repairing their boats, while some time was required to obtain the necessary sleep of which their nightly toil had deprived them. those toilers of the sea were seldom idle. when bad weather prevented them from going far from the coast, they fished with lines, or laid down their lobster-pots among the rocks close inshore, while occasionally a few fish were to be caught in the waters of their little harbour. most of them also cultivated patches of ground on the sides of the valley which opened out at the further end of the gorge, but, except potatoes, their fields afforded but precarious crops. paul and michael had performed most of their destined task: the net had been spread along the rocks to dry, and two or three rents, caused by the fisherman's foes, some huge conger or cod-fish, had been repaired. a portion of their fish had been sold to abel mawgan, and the remainder had been salted for their own use, when paul, who had been going about his work with less than his usual spirit, complained of pains in his back and limbs. leaving michael to clean out the boat and moor her, and to bring up the oars and other gear, he went into the cottage to lie down and rest. little perhaps did the strong and hardy fisherman suppose, as he threw himself on his bunk in the little chamber where he and michael slept, that he should never again rise, and that his last trip on the salt sea had been taken--that for the last time he had hauled his nets, that his life's work was done. yet he might have had some presentiment of what was going to happen as he sailed homewards that morning, when he resolved to tell michael about his parents, and gave him the account of his father's death which has been described. the young fisher boy went on board the "wild duck," and was busily employed in cleaning her out, thinking over what he had heard in the morning. whilst thus engaged, he saw a small boat coming down from the head of the harbour towards him, pulled by a lad somewhat older than himself. "there is eban cowan, the miller's son. i suppose he is coming here. i wonder what he wants?" he thought. "the `polly' was out last night, and got a good haul, so it cannot be for fish." michael was right in supposing that eban cowan was coming to their landing-place. the lad in the punt pulled up alongside the "wild duck." "how fares it with you, michael?" he said, putting out his hand. "you did well this morning, i suspect, like most of us. did abel mawgan buy all your `catch'? he took the whole of ours." "no, granny and nelly started off to helston with their creels full, as they can get a much better price than mawgan will give," answered michael. "i am sorry that nelly is away, for i have brought her some shells i promised her a month ago. but as i have nothing to do, i will bide with you till she comes back." "she and granny won't be back till late, i am afraid, and you lose your time staying here," said michael. "never mind, i will lend you a hand," said eban, making his punt fast, and stepping on board the "wild duck." he was a fine, handsome, broad-shouldered lad, with dark eyes and hair, and with a complexion more like that of an inhabitant of the south than of an english boy. he took up a mop as he spoke, whisking up the bits of seaweed and fish-scales which covered the bottom of the boat. "thank you," said michael; "i won't ask you to stop, for i must go and turn in and get some sleep. father does not seem very well, and i shall have more work in the evening." "what is the matter with uncle paul?" asked eban. michael told him that he had been complaining since the morning, but he hoped the night's rest would set him to rights. "you won't want to go to sea to-night. it's blowing hard outside, and likely to come on worse," observed eban. though he called paul "uncle," there was no relationship. he merely used the term of respect common in cornwall when a younger speaks of an older man. eban, however, did not take michael's hint, but continued working away in the boat till she was completely put to rights. "now," he said, "i will help you up with the oars and sails. you have more than enough to do, it seems to me, for a small fellow like you." "i am able to do it," answered michael; "and i am thankful that i can." "you live hard, though, and your father grows no richer," observed eban. "if he did as others do, and as my father has advised him many a time, he would be a richer man, and you and your sister and aunt lanreath would not have to toil early and late, and wear the life out of you as you do. i hope you will be wiser." "i know my father is right, whatever he does, and i hope to follow his example," answered michael, unstepping the mast, which he let fall on his shoulder preparatory to carrying it up to the shed. "i was going to take that up," said eban; "it is too heavy for you by half." "it is my duty, thank you," said michael, somewhat coldly, stepping on shore with his burden. slight as he looked, he carried the heavy spar up the pathway and deposited it against the side of the house. he was returning for the remainder of the boat's gear, when he met eban with it on his shoulders. "thank you," he said; "but i don't want to give you my work to do." "it's no labour to me," answered eban. "just do you go and turn in, and i will moor the boat and make a new set of `tholes' for you." again michael begged that his friend would not trouble himself, adding-"if you have brought the shells for nelly and will leave them with me, i will give them to her when she comes home." nothing he could say, however, would induce eban to go away. the latter had made up his mind to remain till nelly's return. still michael was not to be turned from his purpose of doing his own work, though he could not prevent eban from assisting him; and not till the boat was moored, and her gear deposited in the shed, would he consent to enter the cottage and seek the rest he required. meantime eban, returning to his punt, shaped out a set of new tholes as he proposed, and then set off up the hill, hoping to meet nelly and her grandmother. he must have found them, for after some time he again came down the hill in their company, talking gaily, now to one, now to the other. he was evidently a favourite with the old woman. nelly thanked him with a sweet smile for the shells, which he had collected in some of the sandy little bays along the coast, which neither she nor michael had ever been able to visit. she was about to invite him into, the cottage, when michael appeared at the door, saying, with a sad face-"o granny! i am so thankful you are come; father seems very bad, and groans terribly. i never before saw him in such a way, and have not known what to do." nelly on this darted in, and was soon by paul's bedside, followed by her grandmother. eban lingered about outside waiting. michael at length came out to him again. "there is no use waiting," he said; and eban, reluctantly going down to his boat, pulled away up the harbour. chapter three. paul continued to suffer much during the evening; still he would not have the doctor sent for. "i shall get better maybe soon, if it's god's will, though such pains are new to me," he said, groaning as he spoke. the storm which had been threatening now burst with unusual strength. michael, with the assistance of nelly and her grandmother, got in the nets in time. all hope of doing anything on the water for that night, at all events, must be abandoned; the weather was even too bad to allow michael to fish in the harbour. little nelly's young heart was deeply grieved as she heard her father groan with pain--he who had never had a day's illness that she could recollect. nothing the dame could think of relieved him. the howling of the wind, the roaring of the waves as they dashed against the rock-bound coast, the pattering of the rain, and ever and anon the loud claps of thunder which echoed among the cliffs, made nelly's heart sink within her. often it seemed as if the very roof of the cottage would be blown off. still she was thankful that her father and michael were inside instead of buffeting the foaming waves out at sea. if careful tending could have done paul good he would soon have got well. the old dame seemed to require no sleep, and she would scarcely let either of her grandchildren take her place even for a few minutes. though she generally went marketing, rather than leave her charge she sent michael and nelly to buy bread and other necessaries at the nearest village, which was, however, at some distance. the rain had ceased, but the wind blew strong over the wild moor. "i am afraid father is going to be very ill," observed michael. "he seemed to think something was going to happen to him when he told me what i did not know before about myself. have you heard anything about it, nelly?" "what is it?" asked nelly; "till you tell me i cannot say." "you've always thought that i was your brother, nelly, haven't you?" "as to that, i have always loved you as a brother, and whether one or no, that should not make you unhappy. has father said anything to you about it?" "yes. he said that i was not your brother; and he has told me all about my father and mother: how my father was drowned, and my mother died of a broken heart. i could well-nigh have cried when i heard the tale." nelly looked up into michael's face. "it's no news to me," she said. "granny told me of it some time ago, but i begged her not to let you find it out lest it should make you unhappy, and you should fancy we were not going to love you as much as we have always done. but, michael, don't go and fancy that; though you are not my brother, i will love you as much as ever, as long as you live: for, except father and granny, i have no friend but you in the world." "i will be your brother and your true friend as long as i live, nelly," responded michael; "still i would rather have thought myself to be your brother, that i might have a better right to work for you, and fight for you too, if needs be." "you will do that, i know, michael," said nelly, "whatever may happen." michael felt that he should be everything that was bad if he did not, though it did not occur to him to make any great promises of what he would do. they went on talking cheerfully and happily together, for though nelly was anxious about her father, she did not yet understand how ill he was. they procured the articles for which they had been sent, and, laden with them, returned homewards. they were making their way along one of the hedges which divide the fields in that part of cornwall--not composed of brambles but of solid rock, and so broad that two people can walk abreast without fear of tumbling off--and were yet some distance from the edge of the ravine down which they had to go to their home, when they saw eban cowan coming towards them. "i wish he had gone some other way," said nelly. "he is very kind bringing me shells and other things, but, michael, i do not like him. i do not know what it is, but there is something in the tone of his voice; it's not truthful like yours and father's." "i never thought about that. he is a bold-hearted, good-natured fellow," observed michael. "he has always been inclined to like us, and shown a wish to be friendly." "i don't want to make him suppose that we are not friendly," said nelly; "only still--" she was unable to finish the sentence, as the subject of their conversation had got close up to them. "good-day, nelly; good-day, michael," he said, putting out his hand. "you have got heavy loads; let me carry yours, nelly." she, however, declined his assistance. "it is lighter than you suppose, and i can carry it well," she answered. he looked somewhat angry and then walked on, michael having to give way to let him pass. instead, however, of doing so, he turned round suddenly and kept alongside nelly, compelling michael in consequence to walk behind them. "i went to ask after your father, nelly," he said, "and, hearing that you were away, came on to meet you. i am sorry to find he is no better." "thank you," said nelly; "father is very ill, i fear; but god is merciful, and will take care of him and make him well if he thinks fit." eban made no reply to this remark. he was not accustomed in his family to hear god spoken of except when that holy name was profaned by being joined to a curse. "you had better let me take your creel, nelly; it will be nothing to me." "it is nothing to me either," answered nelly, laughing. "i undertook to bring home the things, and i do not wish anybody else to do my work." still eban persisted in his offers; she as constantly refusing, till they reached the top of the pathway. "there," she said, "i have only to go down hill now, so you need not be afraid the load will break my back. good-bye, eban, you will be wanted at home i dare say." eban looked disconcerted; he appeared to have intended to accompany her down the hill, but he had sense enough to see that she did not wish him to do so. he stopped short, therefore. "good-bye, eban," said michael, as he passed him; "nelly and i must get home as fast as we can to help granny nurse father." "that's the work you are most fitted for," muttered eban, as michael went on. "if it was not for nelly i should soon quarrel with that fellow. he is always talking about his duty, and fearing god, and such like things. if he had more spirit he would not hold back as he does from joining us. however, i will win him over some day when he is older, and it is not so easy to make a livelihood with his nets and lines alone as he supposes." eban remained on the top of the hill watching his young acquaintances as they descended the steep path, and then made his way homewards. when nelly and michael arrived at the cottage the dame told them, to their sorrow, that their father was not better but rather worse. he still, however, forbad her sending for the doctor. day after day he continued much in the same state, though he endeavoured to encourage them with the hopes that he should get well at last. the weather continued so bad all this time that michael could not get out in the boat to fish with lines or lay down his lobster-pots. he and nelly might have lost spirit had not their granny kept up hers and cheered them. "we must expect bad times, my children, in this world," she said. "the sun does not always shine, but when clouds cover the sky we know they will blow away at last and we shall have fine days again. i have had many trials in my life, but here i am as well and hardy as ever. we cannot tell why some are spared and some are taken away. it is god's will, that's all we know. it was his will to take your parents, michael, but he may think fit to let you live to a green old age. i knew your father and mother, and your grandmother too. your grandmother had her trials, and heavy ones they were. i remember her a pretty, bright young woman as i ever saw. she lived in a gentleman's house as a sort of nurse or governess, where all were very fond of her, and she might have lived on in the house to the end of her days; but she was courted by a fine-looking fellow, who passed as the captain of a merchant vessel. a captain he was, though not of an honest trader, as he pretended, but of a smuggling craft, of which there were not a few in those days off this coast. the match was thought a good one for nancy trewinham when she married captain brewhard. they lived in good style and she was made much of, and looked upon as a lady, but before long she found out her husband's calling, and right-thinking and good as she was she could not enjoy her riches. she tried to persuade her husband to abandon his calling, but he laughed at her, and told her that if it was not for that he should be a beggar. "he moved away from penzance, where he had a house, and after going to two or three other places, came to live near here. they had at this time two children, a fine lad of fifteen or sixteen years old, and your mother judith. "the captain was constantly away from home, and, to the grief of his wife, insisted on taking his boy with him. she well knew the hazardous work he was engaged in; so did most of the people on the coast, though he still passed where he lived for the master of a regular merchantman. "there are some i have known engaged in smuggling for years, who have died quietly in their beds, but many, too, have been drowned at sea or killed in action with the king's cruisers, or shot landing their goods. "there used to be some desperate work going on along this coast in my younger days. "at last the captain, taking his boy with him, went away in his lugger, the `lively nancy,' over to france. she was a fine craft, carrying eight guns, and a crew of thirty men or more. the king's cruisers had long been on the watch for her. as you know, smugglers always choose a dark and stormy night for running their cargoes. there was a cutter at the time off the coast commanded by an officer who had made up his mind to take the `lively nancy,' let her fight ever so desperately. her captain laughed at his threats, and declared that he would send her to the bottom first. "i lived at that time with my husband and nelly's mother, our only child, at landewednach. it was blowing hard from the south-west with a cloudy sky, when just before daybreak a sound of firing at sea was heard. there were few people in the village who did not turn out to try and discover what was going on. the morning was dark, but we saw the flashes of guns to the westward, and my husband and others made out that there were two vessels engaged standing away towards mount's bay. we all guessed truly that one was the `lively nancy,' and the other the king's cutter. "gradually the sounds of the guns grew less and the flashes seemed further off. after some time, however, they again drew near. it was evident that the cutter had attacked the lugger, which was probably endeavouring to get away out to sea or to round the lizard, when, with a flowing sheet before the wind, she would have a better chance of escape. "just then daylight broke, and we could distinguish both the vessels close-hauled, the lugger to leeward trying to weather on the cutter, which was close to her on her quarter, both carrying as much sail as they could stagger under. they kept firing as fast as the guns could be loaded, each trying to knock away her opponent's spars, so that more damage was done to the rigging than to the crews of the vessels. "the chief object of the smugglers was to escape, and this they hoped to do if they could bring down the cutter's mainsail. the king's officer knew that he should have the smugglers safe enough if he could but make them strike; this, however, knowing that they all fought with ropes round their necks, they had no thoughts of doing. "though the lugger stood on bravely, we could see that she was being jammed down gradually towards the shore. my good man cried out, `that her fore-tack was shot away and it would now go hard with her.' "the smugglers, however, in spite of the fire to which they were exposed, got it hauled down. the cutter was thereby enabled to range up alongside. "by this time the two vessels got almost abreast of the point, but there were the stags to be weathered. if the lugger could do that she might then keep away. there seemed a good chance that she would do it, and many hoped she would, for their hearts were with her rather than with the king's cruiser. "she was not a quarter of a mile from the stags when down came her mainmast. it must have knocked over the man at the helm and injured others standing aft, for her head fell off and she ran on directly for the rocks. still her crew did their best to save her. the wreck was cleared away, and once more she stood up as close as she could now be kept to the wind. one of her guns only was fired, for the crew had somewhat else to do just then. the cutter no longer kept as close to her as before; well did her commander know the danger of standing too near those terrible rocks, over which the sea was breaking in masses of foam. "there seemed a chance that the lugger might still scrape clear of the rocks; if not, in a few moments she must be dashed to pieces and every soul on board perish. "i could not help thinking of the poor lad whom his father had taken with him in spite of his mother's tears and entreaties. it must have been a terrible thought for the captain that he had thus brought his young son to an untimely end. for that reason i would have given much to see the lugger escape, but it was not to be. "the seas came rolling in more heavily than before. a fierce blast struck her, and in another instant, covered with a shroud of foam, she was dashed against the wild rocks, and when we looked again she seemed to have melted away--not a plank of her still holding together. "the cutter herself had but just weathered the rocks, and though she stood to leeward of them on the chance of picking up any of the luggers crew who might have escaped, not one was found. "such was the end of the `lively nancy,' and your bold grandfather. your poor grandmother never lifted up her head after she heard of what had happened. still she struggled on for the sake of her little daughter, but by degrees all the money she possessed was spent. she at once moved into a small cottage, and then at last she and her young daughter found shelter in a single room. after this she did not live long, and your poor mother was left destitute. it was then your father met her, and though she had more education than he had, and remembered well the comfort she had once enjoyed, she consented to become his wife. he did his best for her, for he was a true-hearted, honest man, but she was ill fitted for the rough life a fisherman's wife has to lead, and when the news of her husband's death reached her she laid down and died. "there, michael, now you have learned all you are ever likely to know of your family, for no one can tell you more about them than i can. "you see you cannot count upon many friends in the world except those you make yourself. but there is one friend you have who will never, if you trust to him, leave or forsake you. he is truer than all earthly friends, and paul trefusis has acted a father's part in bringing you up to fear and honour him." "i do trust god, for it is he you speak of, granny," said michael, "and i will try to love and obey him as long as i live. he did what he knew to be best when he took my poor father away, and gave me such a good one as he who lies sick in there. i wish, granny, that you could have given me a better account of my grandfather." "i thought it best that you should know the truth, michael, and as you cannot be called to account for what he was, you need not trouble yourself about that matter. your grandmother was an excellent woman, and i have a notion that she was of gentle blood, so it is well you should remember her name, and you may some day hear of her kith and kin: not that you are ever likely to gain anything by that; still it's a set-off against what your grandfather was, though people hereabouts will never throw that in your face." "i should care little for what they may say," answered michael; "all i wish is to grow into a strong man to be able to work for you and nelly and poor father, if he does not gain his strength. i will do my best now, and when the pilchard season comes on i hope, if i can get david treloar or another hand in the boat, to do still better." chapter four. day after day paul trefusis lay on his sick-bed. a doctor was sent for, but his report was unfavourable. nelly asked him, with trembling lips, whether he thought her father would ever get well. "you must not depend too much on that, my little maiden," he answered; "but i hope your brother, who seems an industrious lad, and that wonderful old woman, your grandmother, will help you to keep the pot boiling in the house, and i dare say you will find friends who will assist you when you require it. good-bye; i'll come and see your father again soon; but all i can do is to relieve his pain." dame lanreath and michael did, indeed, do their best to keep the pot boiling: early and late michael was at work, either digging in the garden, fishing in the harbour, or, when the weather would allow him, going with the boat outside. young as he was, he was well able, under ordinary circumstances, to manage her by himself, though, of course, single-handed, he could not use the nets. though he toiled very hard, he could, however, obtain but a scanty supply of fish. when he obtained more than were required for home consumption, the dame would set off to dispose of them; but she had no longer the companionship of nelly, who remained to watch over her poor father. when paul had strength sufficient to speak, which he had not always, he would give his daughter good advice, and warn her of the dangers to which she would be exposed in the world. "nelly," he said, "do not trust a person with a soft-speaking tongue, merely because he is soft-speaking; or one with good looks, merely because he has good looks. learn his character first--how he spends his time, how he speaks about other people, and, more than all, how he speaks about god. do not trust him because he says pleasant things to you. there is eban cowan, for instance, a good-looking lad, with pleasant manners; but he comes of a bad stock, and is not brought up to fear god. it is wrong to speak ill of one's neighbours, so i have not talked of what i know about his father and his father's companions; but, nelly dear, i tell you not to trust him or them till you have good cause to do so." nelly, like a wise girl, never forgot what her father said to her. after this paul grew worse. often, for days together, he was racked with pain, and could scarcely utter a word. nelly tended him with the most loving care. it grieved her tender heart to see him suffer; but she tried to conceal her sorrow, and he never uttered a word of complaint. michael had now become the main support of the family; for though paul had managed to keep out of debt and have a small supply of money in hand, yet that was gradually diminishing. "never fear, nelly," said michael, when she told him one day how little they had left; "we must hope for a good pilchard-fishing, and we can manage to rub on till then. the nets are in good order, and i can get the help i spoke of; so that i can take father's place, and we shall have his share in the company's fishing." michael alluded to a custom which prevails among the fishermen on that coast. a certain number, who possess boats and nets, form a company, and fish together when the pilchards visit their coast, dividing afterwards the amount they receive for the fish caught. "it is a long time to wait till then," observed nelly. "but on most days i can catch lobsters and crabs, and every time i have been out lately the fish come to my lines more readily than they used to do," answered michael. "do not be cast down, nelly dear, we have a friend in heaven, as father says, who will take care of us; let us trust him." time passed on. paul trefusis, instead of getting better, became worse and worse. his once strong, stout frame was now reduced to a mere skeleton. still nelly and michael buoyed themselves up with the hope that he would recover. dame lanreath knew too well that his days on earth were drawing to an end. michael had become the mainstay of the family. whenever a boat could get outside, the "wild duck" was sure to be seen making her way towards the best fishing-ground. paul, before he started each day, inquired which way the wind was, and what sea there was on, and advised him where to go. "michael," said paul, as the boy came one morning to wish him good-bye, "fare thee well, lad; don't forget the advice i have given thee, and look after little nelly and her grandmother, and may god bless and prosper thee;" and taking michael's hand, paul pressed it gently. he had no strength for a firm grasp now. michael was struck by his manner. had it not been necessary to catch some fish he would not have left the cottage. putting the boat's sail and other gear on board, he pulled down the harbour. he had to pull some little way out to sea. the wind was setting on shore. he did not mind that, for he should sail back the faster. the weather did not look as promising as he could have wished: dark clouds were gathering to the north-west and passing rapidly over the sky. as he knew, should the wind stand, he could easily regain the harbour, he went rather more to the southward than he otherwise would have done, to a good spot, where he had often had a successful fishing. he had brought his dinner with him, as he intended to fish all day. his lines were scarcely overboard before he got a bite, and he was soon catching fish as fast as he could haul his lines on board. this put him in good spirits. "granny will have her creel full to sell to-morrow," he thought. "maybe i shall get back in time for her to set off to-day." so eagerly occupied was he that he did not observe the change of the weather. the wind had veered round more to the northward. it was every instant blowing stronger and stronger, although, from its coming off the land, there was not much sea on. at last he had caught a good supply of fish. by waiting he might have obtained many more, but he should then be too late for that day's market. lifting his anchor, therefore, he got out his oars and began to pull homewards. the wind was very strong, and he soon found that, with all his efforts, he could make no headway. the tide, too, had turned, and was against him, sweeping round in a strong current to the southward. in vain he pulled. though putting all the strength he possessed to his oars, still, as he looked at the shore, he was rather losing than gaining ground. he knew that the attempt to reach the harbour under sail would be hopeless; he should be sure to lose every tack he made. already half a gale of wind was blowing, and the boat, with the little ballast there was in her, would scarcely look up even to the closest reefed canvas. again he dropped his anchor, intending to wait the turn of the tide, sorely regretting that he could not take the fish home in time for granny to sell on that day. -----------------------------------------------------------------------dame lanreath and nelly had been anxiously expecting michael's return, and the dame had got ready to set off as soon as he appeared with the fish they hoped he would catch. still he did not come. paul had more than once inquired for him. he told nelly to go out and see how the wind was, and whether there was much sea on. nelly made her way under the cliffs to the nearest point whence she could obtain a view of the mouth of the harbour and the sea beyond. she looked out eagerly for michael's boat, hoping to discover her making her way towards the shore; but nelly looked in vain. already there was a good deal of sea on, and the wind, which had been blowing strong from the north-west, while she was standing there veered a point or two more to the northward. "where could michael have gone?" she looked and looked till her eyes ached, still she could not bring herself to go back without being able to make some report about him. at last she determined to call at the cottage of reuben lanaherne, a friend of her father's, though a somewhat older man. "what is it brings you here, my pretty maiden?" said uncle reuben, who, for a wonder, was at home, as nelly, after gently knocking, lifted the latch and entered a room with sanded floor and blue painted ceiling. "o uncle lanaherne," she said, "can you tell me where you think michael has gone? he ought to have been back long ago." "he would have been wiser not to have gone out at all with the weather threatening as it has been; but he is a handy lad in a boat, nelly, and he will find his way in as well as any one, so don't you be unhappy about him," was the answer. still reuben looked a little anxious, and putting on his hat, buttoning up his coat, and taking his glass under his arm, he accompanied nelly to the point. he took a steady survey round. "michael's boat is nowhere near under sail," he observed. "there seems to me a boat, however, away to the southward, but, with the wind and tide as at present, she cannot be coming here. i wish i could make out more to cheer you, nelly. you must tell your father that; and he knows if we can lend michael a hand we will. how is he to-day?" "he is very bad, uncle lanaherne," said nelly, with a sigh; "i fear sometimes that he will never go fishing again." "i am afraid not, nelly," observed the rough fisherman, putting his hand on her head; "but you know you and your brother will always find a friend in reuben lanaherne. an honest man's children will never want, and if there ever was an honest man, your poor father is one. i will keep a look-out for michael, but do not be cast down, nelly; we shall see him before long." the fisherman spoke in a cheery tone, but still he could not help feeling more anxiety than he expressed for michael. every moment the wind was increasing, and the heavy seas which came rolling in showed that a gale had been blowing for some time outside. nelly hastened back to tell her father what uncle lanaherne had said. when she got to his bedside she found that a great change had taken place during her absence. her father turned his dim eye towards her as she entered, but had scarcely strength to speak, or beckon her with his hands. she bent over him. "nelly dear, where is michael?" he asked, "i want to bless him, he must come quickly, for i have not long to stay." "he has not come on shore yet, father, but uncle lanaherne is looking out for him," said nelly. "i wanted to see him again," whispered paul. "it will be too late if he does not come now; so tell him, nelly, that i do bless him, and i bless you, nelly, bless you, bless you;" and his voice became fainter. nelly, seeing a change come over her father's features, cried out for her granny. dame lanreath hastened into the room. the old woman saw at a glance what had happened. paul trefusis was dead. closing his eyes, she took her grandchild by the hand, and led her out of the room. some time passed, however, before nelly could realise what had happened. "your father has gone, nelly, but he has gone to heaven, and is happier far than he ever was or ever could be down on earth even in the best of times. bad times may be coming, and god in his love and mercy took him that he might escape them." "but, then, why didn't god take us?" asked nelly, looking up. "i would have liked to die with him. bad times will be as hard for us to bear as for him." "god always does what is best, and he has a reason for keeping us on earth," answered the dame. "he has kept me well-nigh fourscore years, and given me health and strength, and good courage to bear whatever i have had to bear, and he will give you strength, nelly, according to your need." "ah, i was wicked to say what i did," answered nelly; "but i am sad about father and you and myself, and very sad, too, about michael. he will grieve so when he comes home and finds father gone, if he comes at all. and, o granny, i begin to fear that he won't come home! what has happened to him i cannot tell; and if you had seen the heavy sea there was rolling outside you would fear the worst." "still, nelly, we must trust in god; if he has taken michael, he has done it for the best, not the worst, nelly," answered dame lanreath. "but when i say this, nelly, i don't want to stop your tears, they are given in mercy to relieve your grief; but pray to god, nelly, to help us; he will do so--only trust him." chapter five. the day was drawing to a close when the storm, which had been threatening all the morning on which paul trefusis died, swept fiercely up the harbour, showing that the wind had again shifted to the westward. poor nelly, though cast down with grief at her father's death, could not help trembling as she thought of michael, exposed as she knew he must be to its rage. was he, too, to be taken away from them? she was left much alone, as dame lanreath had been engaged, with the assistance of a neighbour, in the sad duty of laying out the dead man. nelly several times had run out to look down the harbour, hoping against hope that she might see michael's boat sailing up it. at length, in spite of the gale, she made her way to reuben lanaherne's cottage. his wife and daughter were seated at their work, but he was not there. agitated and breathless from encountering the fierce wind, she could scarcely speak as she entered. "sit down, maiden; what ails thee?" said dame lanaherne, rising, and kindly placing her on a stool by her side. nelly could only answer with sobs. just then old reuben himself entered, shaking the spray from his thick coat. "how is thy father, nelly?" he asked. "he has gone," she answered, sobbing afresh. "and, o uncle reuben, have you seen michael's boat? can you tell me where he is?" "i have not forgotten him, nelly, and have been along the shore as far as i could make my way on the chance that he might have missed the harbour, and had run for kynance cove, but not a sign of him or his boat could i see. i wish i had better news for you, nelly. and your good father gone too! don't take on so--he is free from pain now--happy in heaven; and there is one above who will look after michael, though what has become of him is more than i can tell you." the old fisherman's words brought little comfort to poor nelly, though he and his wife and daughter did their best to console her. they pressed her to remain with them, but she would not be absent longer from her granny, and, thanking them for their kindness, hurried homewards. the wind blew fiercely, but no rain had as yet fallen. their neighbour, having rendered all the assistance required, had gone away, and the old dame and her young grandchild sat together side by side in the outer room. they could talk only of michael. the dame did not dare to utter what she thought. his small boat might have been swamped in the heavy sea, or he might have fallen overboard and been unable to regain her; or, attempting to land on a rocky coast, she might have been dashed to pieces, and he swept off by the receding surf. such had been the fate of many she had known. as each succeeding gust swept by, poor nelly started and trembled in spite of her efforts to keep calm. at length down came the rain battering against the small panes of glass. at that instant there was a knocking at the door. "can you give us shelter from the storm, good folks?" said a voice; and, the latch being lifted, an elderly gentleman, accompanied by two ladies, one of whom was young and the other more advanced in life, appeared at the entrance. they evidently took it for granted that they should not be denied. "you are welcome, though you come to a house of mourning," said dame lanreath, rising, while nelly hastened to place stools for them to sit on. "i am afraid, then, that we are intruders," said the gentleman, "and we would offer to go on, but my wife and daughter would be wet through before we could reach any other shelter." "we would not turn any one away, especially you and mistress tremayne," said the dame, looking at the elder lady. "what! do you know us?" asked the gentleman. "i know mistress tremayne and the young lady from her likeness to what i recollect of her mother," answered dame lanreath. "i seldom forget a person i once knew, and she has often bought fish of me in days gone by." "and i, too, recollect you. if i mistake not you used to be pretty widely known as polly lanreath," said the lady, looking at the old fish-wife. "and so i am now, mistress tremayne," answered the dame, "though not known so far and wide as i once was. i can still walk my twenty miles a-day; but years grow on one; and when i see so many whom i have known as children taken away, i cannot expect to remain hale and strong much longer." "you have altered but little since i knew you," observed mrs tremayne, "and i hope that you may retain your health and strength for many years to come." "that's as god wills," said the dame. "i pray it may be so for the sake of my little nelly here." "she is your grandchild, i suppose," observed mrs tremayne. "ay, and the only one i have got to live for now. her father has just gone, and she and i are left alone." "o granny, but there is michael; don't talk of him as gone," exclaimed nelly. "he will come back, surely he will come back." this remark of nelly's caused mr and mrs tremayne to make further inquiries. they at first regretted that they had been compelled to take shelter in the cottage, but as the dame continued talking, their interest in what she said increased. "it seemed strange, mistress tremayne, that you should have come here at this moment," she observed. "our michael is the grandson of one whom you knew well in your childhood; she was nancy trewinham, who was nurse in the family of your mother, lady saint mabyn; and you, if i mistake not, were old enough at the time to remember her." "yes, indeed, i do perfectly well; and i have often heard my mother express her regret that so good and gentle a young woman should have married a man who, though apparently well-to-do in the world, was more than suspected to be of indifferent character," said the lady. "we could gain no intelligence of her after she left penzance, though i remember my father saying that he had no doubt a noted smuggler whose vessel was lost off this coast was the man she had married. being interested in her family, he made inquiries, but could not ascertain whether she had survived her unhappy husband or not. and have you, indeed, taken charge of her grandson in addition to those of your own family whom you have had to support?" "it was not i took charge of the boy, but my good son-in-law, who lies dead there," said the dame. "he thought it but a slight thing, and only did what he knew others would do by him." "he deserved not the less credit," said mr tremayne. "we shall, indeed, be anxious to hear that the boy has come to no harm, and i am sure that mrs tremayne will be glad to do anything in her power to assist you and him should he, as i hope, have escaped. we purpose staying at landewednach for a few days to visit the scenery on the coast, and will send down to inquire to-morrow." while mr and mrs tremayne and the old dame had been talking, miss tremayne had beckoned to nelly to come and sit by her, and, speaking in a kind and gentle voice, had tried to comfort the young girl. she, however, could only express her hope that michael had by some means or other escaped. though nelly knew that that hope was vain, the sympathy which was shown her soothed her sorrow more than the words which were uttered. sympathy, in truth, is the only balm that one human being can pour into the wounded heart of another. would that we could remember that in all our grief and sufferings we have one in heaven who can sympathise with us as he did when he wept with the sorrowing family at bethany. the rain ceased almost as suddenly as it had commenced, and as mr and mrs tremayne, who had left their carriage on the top of the hill, were anxious to proceed on their journey, they bade dame lanreath and nelly good-bye, again apologising for having intruded on them. "don't talk of that please, mistress tremayne," said the old dame. "your visit has been a blessing to us, as it has taken us off our own sad thoughts. nelly already looks less cast down, from what the young lady has been saying to her, and though you can't bring the dead to life we feel your kindness." "you will let me make it rather more substantial, then, by accepting this trifle, which may be useful under the present circumstances," said the gentleman, offering a couple of guineas. the old dame looked at them, a struggle seemed to be going on within her. "i thank you kindly, sir, that i do," she answered; "but since my earliest days i have gained my daily bread and never taken charity from any one." "but you must not consider this as charity, dame," observed mrs tremayne; "it is given to show our interest in your little granddaughter and in the boy whom your son-in-law and you have so generously protected so many years. i should, indeed, feel bound to assist him, and therefore on his account pray receive it and spend it as you may require." the dame's scruples were at length overcome, and her guests, after she had again expressed her feelings of gratitude, took their departure. they had scarcely gone when eban cowan appeared at the door. "i have just heard what has happened, and i could not let the day pass without coming to tell you how sorry i am," he said, as he entered. nelly thanked him warmly. "father has gone to heaven and is at rest," she said, quietly. "i should think that you would rather have had him with you down on earth," observed eban, who little comprehended her feelings. "so i would, but it was god's will to take him, and he taught me to say, `thy will be done;' and i can say that though i grieve for his loss," answered nelly. "but, o eban, when you came i thought that you had brought some tidings of michael." "no! where is he? i did not know that he was not at home." nelly then told eban how michael had gone away with the boat in the morning and had not returned. "i will go and search for him then," he said. "he has run in somewhere, perhaps, along the coast. i wonder, when you spoke to uncle lanaherne, that he did not set off at once. but i will go. i'll get father to send some men with me with ropes, and if he is alive and clinging to a rock, as he may be, we will bring him back." nelly poured out her thanks to eban, who, observing that there was no time to be lost, set off to carry out his proposal. dame lanreath had said but little. she shook her head when he had gone, as nelly continued praising him. "he is brave and bold, nelly, but that could be said of captain brewhard and many others i have known, who were bad husbands and false friends, and there is something about the lad i have never liked. he is inclined to be friendly now; and as you grow up he will wish, maybe, to be more friendly; but i warn you against him, nelly dear. though he speaks to you ever go fair, don't trust him." "but i must be grateful to him as long as i live if he finds michael," answered nelly, who thought her grandmother condemned eban without sufficient cause. had she known how he had often talked to michael, she might have been of a different opinion. the storm continued to blow as fiercely as ever, and the rain again came pelting down; ever and anon peals of thunder rattled and crashed overhead, and flashes of lightning, seen more vividly through the thickening gloom, darted from the sky. dame lanreath and nelly sat in their cottage by the dead--the old woman calm and unmoved, though nelly, at each successive crash of thunder or flash of lightning, drew closer to her grandmother, feeling more secure in the embrace of the only being on whom she had now to rely for protection in the wide world. chapter six. young michael sat all alone in his boat, tossed about by the foaming seas. his anchor held, so there was no fear of his drifting. but that was not the only danger to which he was exposed. at any moment a sea might break on board and wash him away, or swamp the boat. he looked round him, calmly considering what was best to be done. no coward fear troubled his mind, yet he clearly saw the various risks he must run. he thought of heaving his ballast overboard and trying to ride out the gale where he was, but then he must abandon all hope of reaching the harbour by his own unaided efforts. he might lash himself to a thwart, and thus escape being washed away; still the fierce waves might tear the boat herself to pieces, so that he quickly gave up that idea. he was too far off to be seen from the shore, except perhaps by the keen-sighted coast-guard men; but even if seen, what boat would venture out into the fast-rising sea to his rescue. he must, he felt, depend upon himself, with god's aid, for saving his life. any longer delay would only increase his peril. the wind and tide would prevent him gaining any part of the coast to the northward. he would therefore make sail and run for landewednach, for not another spot where he had the slightest prospect of landing in safety was to be found between the gull rock and the beach at that place. he very well knew, indeed, the danger he must encounter even there, but it was a choice of evils. he quickly made up his mind. he at first set to work to bail out the boat, for already she had shipped a good deal of water. he had plenty of sea room, so that he might venture to lift his anchor. but it was no easy work, and the sea, which broke over the bows again and again, made him almost relinquish the effort, and cut the cable instead. still he knew the importance of having his anchor ready to drop, should he be unable to beach the boat on his arrival at the spot he had selected, so again he tried, and up it came. he quickly hauled it in, and running up his sail he sprang to the tiller, hauling aft his main-sheet. away flew the boat amid the tumbling seas, which came rolling in from the westward. he held the sheet in his hand, for there was now as much wind as the boat could look up to, and a sudden blast might at any moment send her over. that, too, michael knew right well. on she flew like a sea-bird amid the foaming waves, now lifted to the summit of one, now dropping down into the hollow, each sea as it came hissing up threatening to break on board; now he kept away to receive its force on his quarter; now he again kept his course. the huge gull rock rose up under his lee, the breakers dashing furiously against its base; then kynance cove, with its fantastically-shaped cliffs, opened out, but the sea roared and foamed at their base, and not a spot of sand could he discover on which he could hope to beach his boat, even should he pass through the raging surf unharmed. meantale point, pradanack, and the soapy rock appeared in succession, but all threatened him alike with destruction should he venture near them. he came abreast of a little harbour, but he had never been in there, and numerous rocks, some beneath the surface, others rising but just above it, lay off its entrance, and the risk of running for it he considered was too great to be encountered. those on shore might have seen his boat as she flew by, but, should they have done so, even the bravest might have been unwilling to risk their lives on the chance of overtaking her before she met that fate to which they might well have believed she was doomed. michael cast but a glance or two to ascertain whether any one was coming; he had little expectation of assistance, but still his courage did not fail him. the rocks were passed; he could already distinguish over his bow the lighthouses on the summit of the lizard point. again he kept away and neared the outer edge of a line of breakers which roared fiercely upon it. he must land there notwithstanding, or be lost, for he knew that his boat could not live going through the race to the southward of the lizard. when off the stags he could distinguish people moving along the shore. he had been seen by them he knew, and perhaps a boat might be launched and come to his rescue. there was no time, however, for consideration. what he had to do must be promptly done. the water in the bay was somewhat smoother than it had hitherto been. in a moment his sail was lowered and his anchor let go. the rain came down heavily. "the wind is falling," he thought; "i will wait till the turn of the tide, when, perhaps, there will be less surf on." he could see the people on the shore watching him, but no attempt was made to launch a boat; indeed he knew that no boat could pass that foaming barrier in safety. he sat down with folded arms, waiting the progress of events. his mind was occupied for a time rather with those at home than about himself; he thought of little nelly and of dame lanreath, and of the kind friend of his youth who had, though he knew it not at that time, left this world of toil and trouble. he had a simple faith in the merits of one who had died for him, and he had perfect trust, not in his own honesty and uprightness, but in the merits and all-sufficient atonement of that loving saviour who died for him. he could therefore, young as he was, calmly contemplate the probability of being unable after all to reach the shore. still he would not allow himself to dwell long on that matter. he was soon aroused indeed to exertion by finding the seas breaking into his boat. he bailed away as fast as they came on board. but he saw that he must abandon all hope of remaining where he was. should he stay much longer the boat might be swamped; the surf, too, might increase, and more effectually than at present bar his progress to the shore. another huge sea rolling in half filled his boat. undaunted, he bailed it out. a second of like size might sink her. evening was coming on; he must dare the fearful passage through the breakers, or perish where he was. he stood up, holding on to the mast, that he might survey the shore. he was abreast of the best place for landing, although he was convinced there were rocks to the north and south of him, their black heads appearing every now and then amid the snow-white foam. in a moment, should his boat touch them, they would dash her to fragments. promptly michael made up his mind what to do. hoisting his foresail he carried the main-sheet aft, and felt that the tiller was securely fixed. taking out his knife, he held it in his teeth--he had sharpened it afresh the previous evening. with one hand holding the main halyards, with a stroke he severed the cable, then as the boat paid off up went his mainsail and he sprang aft to the helm. the sheet was eased off. the hissing seas followed fast astern. in another minute he would be among the raging breakers, and then safe on shore, or, what was too probable, whirled and tossed and tumbled over and over as he and the fragments of his boat were carried back in their cruel embrace. mr and mrs tremayne and their daughter had reached the little hotel at the lizard head, when they heard that a small boat had been seen in a fearfully perilous position anchored at a short distance outside the breakers. they hastened down to the beach, where some of the coast-guard men and several other persons were collected. they made inquiries as to the probability of the boat reaching the shore in safety. "not the slightest hope through such a surf as this," was the answer. "who is on board?" asked mr tremayne. "it seems to be a young lad, as far as we can make out," said a coast-guard man. "his best chance is to hold on till low water, when, as there will be a pretty broad piece of sand, if the wind goes down, he may happen to get in without being swamped." "but if the wind does not go down, and the weather still looks threatening, what can he do?" "his fate will be that of many another poor fellow," said the man. "he is a brave young chap, though, or he would not have brought up in the way he did. i have not once seen him waving his arms or seeming to be crying out for help, as most would be." "can he be young michael penguyne, of whom we have just heard!" exclaimed mrs tremayne. "oh, can nothing be done to save him?" "will none of you fine fellows launch a boat and go out and try and bring in the boy?" asked mr tremayne. "i will give twenty pounds to the crew of the boat which brings him in." "i am sorry, sir, that i cannot allow my men to go out," said the officer of the coast-guard, who heard the offer made. "we should not have waited for a reward if it could be done, but the best boat we have would be swamped to a certainty, and the lives of all her crew sacrificed. i much regret being compelled to say this; there is not a man here who would not do his best to save the life of the lad if it were possible." "are none of the fishermen's boats better fitted for the purpose?" asked mr tremayne. "i will give twenty-five pounds to the boat which saves the lad. surely if so small a boat as his can live, a large fishing-boat would run but comparatively little risk." the officer explained that the danger would be incurred in passing through the breakers, and that once outside, although the sea was very heavy, a boat properly handled would keep afloat. "i have," he added, "sent to a little harbour to the north of this, but the boats there are small, and i doubt whether any of the fishermen will venture so near the breakers as that boat has brought up. i will, however, send again with your generous offer, though some time must elapse before a boat can be got ready, even if a crew can be found willing to risk their lives in the service." "i will go myself to urge them to undertake it if you can devise no other means of saving the lad," said mr tremayne. "the distance is considerable, and it will be night before you can reach the place," answered the officer. "i would advise you, sir, not to make the attempt. they will trust to my promise, as i will send one of my own men." "tell them you will give them twenty-five pounds if they will start at once," exclaimed mrs tremayne, eagerly; "surely men will not stand calmly by and allow the poor boy to perish in their sight." "i will do as you wish," answered the officer. just as they were speaking, however, there was a cry from those looking on. "he has cut his cable--he has hoisted his sail--he is going to venture it," exclaimed several people simultaneously. the boat's head was turned towards the shore. onward she came. now she rose to the summit of a huge wave, now plunged downwards. for an instant the sail flapped, becalmed by another sea which rolled up astern. a cry escaped the spectators: "she will be swamped! she will be swamped!" but no; again the sail filled and on she came. the young boy was seen seated in the stern of his boat grasping the tiller with one hand and the main-sheet with the other. over she heeled to the blast--again she rose, and again sunk down, and now she was among the hissing, roaring, foaming breakers. the waters bubbled up, tumbling into her on either side; but still the boy held firm hold of his tiller. again the sail flapped--there was a sudden lull. "she is lost, she is lost!" was the cry. "the next sea must swamp her;" but the wind came faster than the wave--the sail bulged out, and on she flew. for another moment she seemed to hang in the midst of a breaker as it rushed backwards from the shore, but another lifted her, and, carried forward on its crest, she came like a thing of life escaping from her savage pursuers towards the beach. a dozen stout hands, incited by the address of mr tremayne, rushed forward to grasp the boat, regardless now of their own safety, for the work was one of no little danger; ere they could seize the boat's gunwale she might be dashed against them, or be swept out by the receding wave as it went hissing backwards in a sheet of foam. but they were well accustomed to the duty they had undertaken. michael to the last kept his seat, steering his boat stem on to the beach. as he felt the keel touch the sand he sprang forward and was grasped by the sturdy arms of one of those who had gone to his rescue, and carried in triumph out of the reach of the foaming breaker, which came roaring up as if fierce at the escape of its prey. with difficulty those who had gone down to seize the boat made their way after their companion, and she, before they could haul her up, was thrown on the beach and rolled over and over with her sides crushed in. "oh, the boat, the boat! what will poor father and those at home do?" exclaimed michael, as he saw what had happened. "i thought to have saved her." "never mind the boat," answered a stout lad, one of those who had gone down to his rescue, wringing him by the hand. "we are right glad to have you safe. i only got here just in time to see you standing for the shore. i did not think you would reach it. i have been hunting for you all along the coast, and made sure that you were lost." "thank you, eban," answered michael, for it was eban cowan who spoke to him. "but poor father will grieve when he hears the boat is lost after all." "thy father won't grieve for that or anything else, michael," said eban, thoughtlessly; "he is dead." "dead!" exclaimed poor michael, grasping the arm of the man who had brought him on shore, and who was still standing by him, and overcome by the strain on his nerves, which he had hitherto so manfully endured, and the sad news so abruptly given him, he would have fallen to the ground had not the fisherman supported him. mr tremayne and his wife and daughter now came up. "poor boy, it is not surprising that he should give way at last," observed mrs tremayne. "we will have him carried to our inn, where he can be properly attended to." mr tremayne agreed to her proposal, and, begging two of the stout fishermen to carry the lad, he promised a reward to those who could secure the boat and her gear. "that will be my charge," said the coast-guard officer. "but i am afraid that the boat herself is a complete wreck, and that very little of her gear will be saved." michael, on being placed in a comfortable bed in the inn, soon returned to consciousness, and was greatly surprised to find two kind-looking ladies watching by his side. the younger one called her father from an adjoining room. "you have had a hard tussle for your life; you behaved courageously, my lad," observed mr tremayne, taking his hand. "i am thankful that god has spared my life," answered michael in a low voice, which showed how much his strength was prostrated. "but, o sir, eban told me that father is dead, and the boat is all knocked to pieces, and what will nelly and poor granny do? next to god, they can only look to the boat and me for help." "what! young as you are, do you expect to be able to support yourself and those you speak of?" asked mrs tremayne. "yes; father gave them into my charge, and if god had given me strength, and the boat had been spared, i would have done my best." "we know nelly and your granny, and more about you than you may suppose," said mrs tremayne, kindly; "we paid them a visit to-day, and heard of their loss. but set your mind at rest about your boat, we will endeavour to obtain another for you, and help you in any other way you may wish." michael expressed his gratitude with an overflowing heart. a night's quiet rest completely restored his strength, and, being eager to assure nelly and dame lanreath of his safety, after he had bade his new friends good-bye he set off on his return home. mrs tremayne promised to have his boat looked after, and to pay him a visit in the course of a day or two to arrange about the purchase of another. on reaching home michael found that eban cowan had been before him, and given nelly and her granny tidings of his safety. they had heard, however, only of the loss of his boat, and had been naturally anxious at the thoughts of what they should do without her. the news he brought that he was to have a new one greatly revived their spirits. "god is indeed kind to us in sending us help in our time of need," said dame lanreath. "o my children! never forget his loving-kindness, but serve and obey him as long as you live." michael's grief was renewed as he went in to see the friend who had acted the part of a father to him all his life; but happily deep grief does not endure long in young hearts, and he now looked forward to mr tremayne's promised visit. "i hope the young lady and her mother will come with him. o nelly! she looked like an angel as she watched by me, when i scarcely knew whether i was alive or being knocked over and over in the breakers," he observed. "for hours after i was safe on shore i had their sound in my ears in a way i never knew before." mr tremayne came to the cottage just as dame lanreath, with michael and nelly, had returned from attending the funeral of paul trefusis. it was a calm and lovely day, and contrasted greatly with the weather which had before prevailed. in the harbour, just below the cottage, lay a boat somewhat smaller than the "wild duck," but nearly new, with freshly-tanned sails, and well fitted in every respect. mrs and miss tremayne were seated in it, with two men who had rowed it round from the lizard. mr tremayne invited the inmates of the cottage to come down and see it. "what do you think of her?" he asked, after they had greeted the two ladies. "she is a handy craft, sir, and just suited for this place," answered michael. "i hope you will find her so," replied mr tremayne. "here is a paper which assigns her to you as her master, and if you will moor her fast her present crew will leave her, as we purpose to continue our journey by land, and have ordered the carriage to meet us at the top of the hill." michael was unable to express his gratitude in words. dame lanreath spoke for him. "may god reward you and your wife and children for your kindness to the orphans, and to an old woman who has well-nigh run her course on earth. we were cast down, though we know that his mercy endureth for ever, and you have lifted us up and shown us that he is faithful and never fails to send help in time of need." nelly took miss tremayne's hand, and, prompted by her feelings, kissed it affectionately; but even she was for the moment unable to express her feelings by words. "thank you, sir, thank you," said michael at last, as they went back. "you have made a man of me, and i can now work for those who have to look to me for support." "i hope you will have the strength, as i am sure you have the will, and may god bless you, my lad," said mr tremayne, shaking him warmly by the hand, for he was far more pleased with the few words michael had uttered than had he poured out his gratitude in measured language. as he and the ladies proceeded up the pathway, nelly ran into the cottage. she soon again overtook them. "will you please, miss, take these small shells?" she said; "they are little worth, i fear, but i have nothing else to give which you might wish to accept, and they may put you in mind of this place, and those who will pray for you and bless your father and mother as long as they live." miss tremayne, much pleased, thanked nelly for her gift, and, assuring her that she should never forget her or michael and her granny, accepted the gift. it is scarcely necessary to say that michael spent a considerable portion of the remainder of the day examining his new boat over and over again, blessing the donor in his heart, and thankful that he should now be able to support nelly and her granny. then the little family assembled in their sitting room, and offered up their thanks to the merciful being who looked down upon them in their distress. chapter seven. michael penguyne made ample use of his new boat. nelly proposed that she should be called the "dove." "you see she was sent to us when all around seemed so dark and gloomy, just as the dove returned to noah, to show that god had not forgotten him." "then we will call her the `dove'," said michael; and the "dove" from henceforth became the name of michael's new boat. early and late michael was in his boat, though he took good care not to be caught to leeward of his port again by a gale of wind. when ashore he was employed mending his nets and refitting his boat's gear or his fishing-lines. never for a moment was he idle, for he always found something which ought to be done; each rope's-end was pointed; his rigging was never chafed; and the moment any service was wanted he put it on. thus a couple of years passed by, dame lanreath and nelly setting out day after day to sell the fish or lobsters and crabs he caught, for which they seldom failed to obtain a good price. at length, however, he found that he could do better with a mate. "i must get david treloar, as i said some time ago," he observed to nelly. "he is twice as strong as i am, though it would not do to trust him alone in a boat, as he never seems to know which way the wind is, or how the tide is running; but he is honest and good-natured, and staunch as steel, and he will do what i tell him. that's all i want. if he had been with me in the little `duck,' we might have gained the harbour and saved her, and though i take all the care i can, yet i may be caught again in the same way." david treloar was a nephew of old reuben lanaherne, who had done his best to bring up the poor lad, and make a fisherman of him. his father had been lost at sea, and his mother had gone out of her mind, and soon afterwards died. michael found him near his uncle's house, attempting, though not very expertly, to mend a net. he was a broad-shouldered, heavy-looking youth, with an expression of countenance which at first sight appeared far from prepossessing; but when spoken to kindly, or told to do anything he liked--and he was ready to do most things--it brightened up, and even a stranger would have said he was a trustworthy fellow, though he might be lacking in intelligence. "so glad you are come, michael," he said. "here have i been working away at these meshes, and cannot make them come even; the more i pull at them the worse they are. just do you use your fingers and settle the job for me, and i will do anything for you." "i know you will, david, and so i am pretty certain that you will come and work in my boat." "what, this afternoon?" asked david. "no, but always. i want you to be my mate." "hurra! hurra! that i will, lad, with all my heart. uncle reuben has got enough lads of his own, he does not want me, and the rest are always making fun at me; but you won't do that, michael, i know. we will soon show them that we can catch as many fish as they can, you and i together; and uncle often says i am as strong as a grown man, and stronger than many." and the young hercules stretched out his brawny arms. michael had not expected to obtain a mate so easily, for david never thought of making terms; provided he got food enough for the day, that was all he thought about. michael, however, intended to settle that matter with uncle reuben. his wish was to act justly towards all men, and pay david fully as much as he was worth. able now to use his nets, michael could look forward to the pilchard season, when he might hope to reap a rich harvest from the sea. soon after this he fell in with eban cowan. "so i see you have got that dolt david treloar as your mate," observed eban. "if you had asked me, i would have advised you to take a chap worth two of him. he is big and strong enough, but he has no sense. i wonder, indeed, michael, that you can go on year after year content to catch a few fish and lobsters, when you might make no end of money and live at home most days in the week enjoying your comfort and doing nothing. just see how father and i live. you don't suppose the mill, and the fish, and our few acres of ground enable us to do that." "i don't ask how you get your living--i do not wish to interfere with my neighbours; but i know that it is my duty to work hard every day that the weather will let me," answered michael. "that may be your taste; but i wonder you like to see nelly wearing her old frock and hood which have become far too small for her, and aunt lanreath's old jacket and petticoat are well-nigh worn out." michael acknowledged that such was the case, and observed that he hoped they would soon get new garments. "you might get them at once if you will join us in our business," answered eban. "what with the fellows who have gone to sea, and some few who have been taken and sent to prison, and those who have been drowned or lost their lives in other ways, we have not as many men as we want. there is good pay to be got, and other profits besides. you would be perfectly safe, for you have a good character, and no one would suspect you of being engaged in the free-trade service." "i tell you, eban, once for all, i will have nothing to do with smuggling," answered michael, firmly. "you say no one will suspect me, but you forget that god sees and hears everything we do, or say, or think. though my fellow-men might not suspect me, he would know that i was engaged in unlawful work. darkness is no darkness to him. day and night to him are both alike." "i don't let myself think about those sort of things," answered eban cowan, in an angry tone. "i ask you again, will you be a sensible fellow and unite with us as i have invited you?" "no, i will not," said michael. "i do not wish to be unfriendly with you, but when you ask me to do what i know to be wrong i cannot look upon you as a friend." "take your own way, then," exclaimed eban, angrily. "you may think better of the matter by-and-by: then all you have to do is to come to me and say so." eban and michael parted for the time. the former, however, was a constant visitor at dame lanreath's cottage. he did not disguise his admiration for nelly trefusis. she might have been flattered, for he was a good-looking, fair-spoken youth, and as he dressed well and had always plenty of money in his pocket, he was looked upon as one of the principal young men in the neighbourhood. still nelly did not consider him equal to michael. time went on: she was becoming a young woman, and michael was no longer the little boy she had looked upon in her early days as her brother. he, too, had ceased to treat her with the affectionate familiarity he used to do when he supposed her to be his sister. still he looked upon her as the being of all others whom he was bound to love, and protect, and support to the utmost of his power. had, however, any young man whom he esteemed, and whom nelly liked, appeared and offered to become her husband, he would possibly have advised her to accept him, though he might have felt that the light of his home had departed. indeed, he was so occupied that the thought of marrying at some future time had never entered his head. though nelly gave eban cowan no encouragement, he still continued, whenever he could get a fair pretence, to visit the cottage, and never failed to walk by her side when he met her out. generally he came saying that he wished to see michael, whom he always spoke of as his most intimate friend, though michael did not consider himself so. he knew too much about eban to desire his friendship; indeed, he doubted very much that eban really cared for him. "your friend eban has been here again to-day," said nelly, one evening when michael returned home late. "he waited and waited, and though i told him i could not say when you would come back, he still sat on, declaring that he must see you, as he wanted you to go somewhere with him, or do something, though what it was he would not tell us. at last, as it grew dark, he was obliged to be off, and neither granny nor i invited him to stay longer." "i am glad he did go," answered michael; "but do not call him my friend. if he was a true friend he would give me good advice and try to lead me aright; instead of that he gives me bad advice, and tries to lead me to do what i know is wrong. there--you now know what i think of eban cowan." "and you think very rightly," observed dame lanreath. "i do not trust him, and perhaps you know more about him and have greater reasons for not liking him than i have." "michael," said nelly, looking up, "i will trust only those whom you trust, and i do not wish to like any one whom you do not like." still, although nelly took no care to show any preference for eban, it was not in her heart to be rude or unkind to him; but dame lanreath tried to make him understand that his visits were not wished for. he, however, fancied that she alone did not like him, and still flattered himself that he was making his way with nelly. thus matters went on month after month. michael and david treloar succeeded together better even than at first expected. david was always ready to do the hard work, and, placing perfect confidence in michael's skill and judgment, readily obeyed him. it was the height of summer-time. the pilchards in vast schools began to visit the coast of cornwall, and the fishermen in all directions were preparing for their capture. the boats were got ready, the nets thoroughly repaired, and corks and leads and tow lines and warps fitted. _huers_, as the men are called who watch for the fish, had taken their stations on every height on the look-out for their approach. each _huer_ kept near him the "white bush," which is the name given to a mass of furze covered with tow or white ribbons. this being raised aloft is the sign that a school is in sight. the boats employed were of two descriptions, the largest of from twenty to thirty tons, carrying seven or eight men; and the smaller somewhat larger than the "dove," having only three or four men. michael had succeeded in obtaining another hand, so that, small as his boat was, he was fully able to take a part in the work. the pilchard belongs to the herring family, but is somewhat smaller, and differs from that fish in external appearance, having a shorter head and a more compact body; its scales, too, are rather longer than those of the common herring. it is supposed to retire during the winter to the deep water of the ocean, and to rise only as the summer approaches to the surface, when it commences its travels and moves eastward towards the english channel. at first it forms only small bands, but these increase till a large army is collected, under the guidance, it is supposed, of a chief. onward it makes its way, pursued by birds of prey who pounce down and carry off thousands of individuals, whose loss, however, scarcely diminishes the size of the mighty host. voracious fish, too, pursue the army as it advances in close columns, and swallow immense numbers. as it approaches the land's end it divides, one portion making its way northward along the west coast, while the other moves forward along the south coast towards the start. the huers can distinguish the approach of a school by a change in the colour of the sea. as it draws near, the water appears to leap and boil like a cauldron, while at night the ocean is spread over, as it were, with a sheet of liquid light, brilliant as when the moonbeams play on the surface rippled by a gentle breeze. from early dawn a number of boats had been waiting off the shore, keeping their position by an occasional pull at the oars as necessity required, with their nets ready to cast at a moment's warning. michael's boat was among them. he and his companions cast their eyes constantly at the huers on the summit of the cliffs above, anxiously expecting the signal that a school had been seen in the far distance. but whether it would approach the shore near enough to enable them to encircle it was uncertain. it might come towards them, but then it might suddenly sweep round to a different part of the coast or dart back again into deep water. hour after hour passed by. the crews of the boats had their provisions with them, and no one at that time would think of returning to the shore for breakfast or dinner. they kept laughing and talking together, or occasionally exchanging a word with those in the boats on either side of them. "i hope we shall have better luck than yesterday," said david treloar. "i had made up my mind that we should have the schools if they came near us, and yet they got off again just at the time i thought we had them secured." "you must have patience, david; trust to him who helped the fishermen of galilee when they had toiled all day and caught nothing," answered michael. "i do not see that we should expect to be better off than they were; he who taught the pilchards to visit our shores will send them into our nets if he thinks fit. our business is to toil on and to trust to his kindness." "ah, michael! you are always right; i do not see things as clearly as you do," said david. "if you do not, still you know that god cares for you as much as he does for me or anyone else; and so do you trust to him, and depend upon it all will turn out right. that's what uncle paul used to say, and your uncle reuben says." michael had for some time past taken pains to let it be known that he was not, as supposed to be, the son of paul trefusis, and had told all his friends and acquaintances the history which paul had given him. many of the elder people, indeed, were well acquainted with the circumstances of the case, and were able to corroborate what he said. eban cowan, however, had hitherto been ignorant of the fact, and had always supposed that michael was nelly's brother. this had originally made him anxious to gain michael's friendship for her sake. almost from his boyhood he had admired her, and his admiration increased with his growth, till he entertained for her as much affection as it was in his nature to feel. no sooner was he aware of the truth than jealousy of michael sprang up in his heart, and instead of putting it away, as he ought to have done, he nourished it till his jealousy grew into a determined and deadly hatred of one whom he chose to consider as his rival. michael, not aware of this, met him in the same frank way that he had always been accustomed to do, and took no notice of the angry scowl which eban often cast at him. eban on this occasion had command of his father's boat. he was reputed to be as good and bold a fisherman as anyone on the coast. michael did not observe the fierce look eban cast at him as they were shoving off in the morning when the two boats pulled out of the harbour together side by side. the boats had now been waiting several hours, and when the huers were seen to raise their white boughs and point to a sandy beach to the north of the harbour (a sign that a school of pilchards was directing its course in that direction), instantly the cry of "_heva_" was raised by the numerous watchers on the shore, and the crews of the boats, bending to their oars, pulled away to get outside the school and prevent them from turning back. two with nets on board, starting from the same point, began quick as lightning to cast them out till they formed a vast circle. away the rowers pulled, straining their sinews to the utmost, till a large circle was formed two thousand feet in circumference, within which the shining fish could be seen leaping and struggling thickly together on the surface. the seine, about twelve fathoms deep, thus formed a wall beyond which the fish could not pass, the bottom being sunk by heavy leads and the upper part supported by corks. in the meantime a boat was employed in driving the fish towards the centre of the enclosure, lest before the circle was completed they might alter their course and escape. although the fish were thus enclosed, their enormous weight would certainly have broken through the net had an attempt been made to drag them on to the beach. the operation was not yet over. warping or dragging them into shallow water had now to be commenced. gradually the circle was drawn nearer and nearer the shore, till shallow water was reached. the seine was then moored, that is, secured by grappling hooks. it had next to be emptied. in bad weather this cannot be done, as the work requires smooth water. on the present occasion, however, the sea was calm, and several boats, supplied with smaller nets and baskets, entered the circle and commenced what is called _tucking_. the small nets were used to encircle as many fish as they could lift, which were quickly hauled on board in the ordinary way, while other boats ladled the pilchards out of the water with baskets. as soon as a boat was laden she returned to the shore by the only passage left open, where men stood ready to close it as soon as she had passed. on the beach were collected numbers of women and lads, with creels on their backs ready to be filled. as soon as this was done they carried them up to the curing-house, situated on a convenient spot near the bay. among those on the beach were dame lanreath and nelly, and as michael assisted to fill their creels he expressed his satisfaction at having contributed so materially to the success of the undertaking, for his boat had been one of the most actively employed. as all engaged in the operation belonged to the same company, they worked with a will, each person taking his allotted duty, and thus doing their utmost to obtain success. some time was occupied in thus emptying the seine, for after the fish on the surface had been caught many more which were swimming lower down and making endeavours to escape, were obtained with the _tucking_ nets. the whole net itself was then dragged up, and the remainder of the fish which had been caught in the meshes, or had before escaped capture, were taken out. such is the ordinary way of catching the pilchard on the coast of cornwall with seines. the inhabitants of the village congratulated themselves on their success. often, as has been said, tucking has to be delayed in consequence of a heavy sea for several days, and sometimes, after all, the fish have been lost. "i mind, not long ago," observed uncle reuben, "when we were shooting a net to the southward, it was caught by the tide and carried away against the rocks, where, besides the fish getting free, it was so torn and mangled that it took us many a long winter's evening to put to rights. and you have heard tell, michael, that at another time, when we had got well-nigh a thousand pounds' worth of fish within our seine, they took it into their heads to make a dash together at one point, and, capsizing it, leaped clear over the top, and the greater number of them got free. and only two seasons ago, just as we thought we had got a fine haul, and the seine was securely moored, a ground swell set in from the westward, where a heavy gale was blowing, and the net was rolled over and over till every fish had escaped, and the net was worth little or nothing. so i say we have reason to be thankful when we get a successful catch like that we have had to-day." it was not, however, the only successful catch which michael and his companions made that season. still, as his boat and net were but small, his share was less than that of the rest of the company, and, after all, his share was not more than sufficient for his expenses. a considerable number of the company were now employed in curing or bulking the late catch of pilchards. this was carried on in a circular court called a cellar. the fish which had been piled up within it were now laid out on raised slabs which ran round the court. first a layer of salt was spread, then a layer of pilchards, and so on, layers of pilchards and salt alternating, till a vast mound was raised. here they remained for about a month or more. below the slabs were gutters, which conveyed the brine and oil which oozed out of the mass into a large pit in the centre of the court. from three to four hundredweight of salt was used for each hogshead. after they had remained in bulk for sufficient time the pilchards were cleansed from the salt and closely packed in hogsheads, each of which contains about 2,400 fish, and weighs about 476 pounds. the pressure to which they are subjected forces the oil out through the open joints of the cask. the pilchards are now familiarly called "fair maids," from _fermade_, a corruption of _fumado_ (the spanish word for _smoked_), as originally they were cured by smoking, a method, however, which has long been abandoned. no portion of the prize is lost; the oil and blood is sold to the curriers, the skimmings of the water in which the fish are washed before packing is purchased by the soap-boilers, and the broken and refuse fish are sold for manure. the oil when clarified forms an important item in the profit. the pilchards, however, are not always to be entrapped near the shore. at most times they keep out at sea, where the hardy fishermen make use of the drift-net. two sorts of boats are employed for this purpose; one is of about thirty tons burden, the other much smaller. they use a number of nets called _a set_, about twenty in all, joined together. each net is about 170 feet long, and 40 deep. united lengthways they form a wall three-quarters of a mile long, the lower part kept down by leads, the upper floated on the surface by corks. sometimes they are even much longer. within the meshes of this net the fish, as they swim rapidly forward, entangle themselves. they easily get their heads through, but cannot withdraw them, as they are held by the gills, which open in the water like the barbs of an arrow. their bodies also being larger than the meshes, they thus remain hanging, unable to extricate themselves. the driving-boat is made fast to one end of the wall, where she hangs on till the time for hauling the net arrives. the fishermen prefer a thick foggy night and a loppy sea, as under those circumstances the pilchards do not perceive the net in their way. at times, however, when the water is phosphorescent, the creatures which form the luminous appearance cover the meshes so that the whole net becomes lighted up. this is called "briming," and the pilchards, thus perceiving the trap in their way, turn aside and escape its meshes. as briming rarely occurs during twilight, and the ocean is at that time dark enough to hide the wall of twine, the fishermen generally shoot their nets soon after sunset and just before dawn, when the fine weather makes it probable that they will be lighted up by the dreaded briming at the other hours of the night. the operation of hauling in nearly a mile of net, with its meshes full of fish, is an arduous task, especially during a dark night, when the boat is tossed about by a heavy sea, and at no time indeed can it be an easy one. the hardy fishermen pursue this species of fishing during the greater part of the year, for small schools of pilchards arrive in the channel as early as the month of may, and remain far into the winter, till the water becomes too cool for their constitutions, when they return eastwards to seek a warmer climate in the depths of the atlantic, or swim off to some unknown region, where they may deposit their spawn or obtain the food on which they exist. little, however, is known of the causes which guide their movements, and the cornish fishermen remain satisfied by knowing the fact that the beautiful little fish which enables them to support themselves and their families are sent annually by their benignant creator to visit their coasts, and seldom trouble themselves to make any further inquiries on the subject. chapter eight. two more years passed away--nelly had become a pretty young woman, modest and good as she was attractive in her personal appearance. she had admirers in plenty besides eban cowan, who continued, as in his younger days, to pay her all the attention in his power, and openly declared to his companions his purpose of making her his wife. by this means he kept some at a distance who were afraid to encounter him as a rival, for they well knew his fierce and determined disposition, of which he had on several occasions given evidence. every one knew that he and his father were leagued with the most desperate gang of smugglers on the coast, and two or three times when acting as leader of a party he had had fierce encounters with the coast-guard, and on each occasion by his judgment and courage had succeeded in carrying off the goods which had been landed to a place of safety he frequently also had made trips in a smuggling lugger, of which his father was part owner, to the coast of france. he was looked upon as a hardy and expert seaman, as well as a good fisherman. had he, indeed, kept to the latter calling, with the boats he owned he would have become an independent, if not a wealthy man. but ill-gotten gains go fast, and in his smuggling enterprises, though he was often successful, yet he lost in the end more than he gained. nelly, though flattered by the attention paid her, showed no preference for any of her admirers. she had a good-natured word or a joke for all of them, but always managed to make them hold their tongues when they appeared to be growing serious. how she might have acted without the sage dame lanreath to advise her, or had she not felt that she could not consent to desert her and michael, it is impossible to say. michael had become a fine and active young man. as a sailor he was not inferior to eban. he had been able to support nelly and her grandmother in comfort, and to save money besides. he had invested his profits in a share of uncle reuben's large fishing-boat, and was thus able to employ himself in the deep-sea seine fishing for the greater part of the year, as well as that of the inshore fishing which he had hitherto pursued. his only regret was that it compelled him to be absent from home more frequently and for longer periods, but then he had always the advantage of returning to spend every sunday with nelly. those sundays were indeed very happy ones; he did not spend them in idle sloth, but he and nelly, accompanied by her grandmother, set off early to worship together, never allowing either wind or rain to hinder them, although they had several miles to go. on their return they spent the remainder of the day in reading god's word, or one of the few cherished books they possessed. they had received some time back two or three which were especially favoured, sent by mrs and miss tremayne, with a kind message inquiring after michael and dame lanreath, and hoping that the "dove" had answered michael's expectations and proved a good and useful sea-boat. nelly undertook to write a reply. "that she has, tell them," said michael. "i often think, when i am at work on board her, of their kindness, and what i should have done had they and mr tremayne not given her to me." after this, however, they received no further news of their friends, and though nelly wrote to inquire, her letter was returned by the post-office, stating that they had left the place. refreshed by his sunday rest, michael went with renewed strength to his weekly toil. uncle reuben's boat was called the "sea-gull." michael was now constantly on board her, as he had from his prudence and skill been chosen as mate. when reuben himself did not go out in her, he had the command. the merry month of may had begun, the "sea-gull" was away with her drift-nets. reuben hoped to be among the first to send fish to the helston market. dame lanreath and nelly, as well as several other female members of reuben's family, or related to his crew, were ready to set off with their creels as soon as the boat returned. nelly had gone as far as uncle reuben's house to watch for the "sea-gull." she had not long to wait before she caught sight of the little vessel skimming over the waters before a light nor'-westerly breeze. it was the morning of the eighth of may, when the annual festival of the flurry was to be held at helston. although nelly did not wish to take part in the sports carried on there, still she had no objection to see what was going forward, and perhaps michael, contrary to his custom, would be willing to accompany her and her granny. "he so seldom takes a holiday; but for this once he may be tempted to go and see the fun," she thought. the "sea-gull" drew near, and nelly knew her appearance too well to have any doubt about her, even when she was a long way off. she now hurried home to tell dame lanreath, that they might be ready at the landing-place to receive their portion of the vessel's cargo. the vessel was soon moored alongside the quay, when the creels were quickly filled with fish. "if you will come with us to helston, michael, i will wait for you. granny will go on ahead and we can soon overtake her. though you have lived so near you have never seen a flurry dance, and on this bright morning there will sure to be a good gathering." "i care little for seeing fine folks dressed up in gay flowers and white dresses, and dancing and jigging, especially as neither you nor i can take a part in the fun," answered michael. "i should like the walk well enough with you, nelly, but a number of congers and dog-fish got foul of our nets and made some ugly holes in them, which will take us all day to mend; it is a wonder they did not do more mischief. so, as i always put business before pleasure, you see, nelly, i must not go, however much i might wish it." nelly thought that david and others might mend the nets; but michael said that he and all hands were required to do the work, and that if he did not stop and set a good example the others might be idle, and when he got back in the evening it might not be done. so nelly, very unwillingly, was obliged to give up her scheme of inducing michael to take a holiday, and accompanied her granny as usual. having left michael's breakfast ready on the table, they set off. the dame trudged along, staff in hand; her step was as firm as it had been ten years before, though her body was slightly bent. nelly walked by her side, as she had done year after year, but she now bore her burden with greater ease; and with her upright figure, and her cheeks blooming with health, the two together presented a perfect picture of a fish-wife and fish-girl. dame lanreath had promised, after they had sold the contents of their creels, to wait some little time to see the flurry dance and the gay people who would throng the town. nelly looked forward to the scene with pleasure, her only regret being that michael had been unable to accompany her. they had gone some distance when they heard a rapid step behind them, and eban cowan came up to nelly's side. "i have been walking hard to overtake you, nelly," he said, "for i found that you had gone on. i suppose you intend to stay and see the gay doings at helston, and will not object to an escort back in the evening?" "granny proposes stopping for the flurry dance, but we shall come away long before it is dark, and as we know the road as well as most people, we can find it by ourselves," answered nelly, coldly. "you will miss half the fun, then," said eban. "you must get your granny to stop, or, if she will not, she cannot mind your remaining with my sister and cousin, and i can see you and them home." "i cannot let my granny walk home by herself," answered nelly; "and so, eban, i beg that you will not say anything more about the matter." eban saw that it would not do just then to press the subject, and he hoped that perhaps nelly would lose sight of her grandmother in the crowd, and that she would then be too glad to come back under his charge. he had made up his mind to have a talk with her, and bring matters to an issue; he did not suppose that she and michael could care much for each other, or he thought that they would have married long ago, and so believed that he had a better chance than any one else of winning nelly trefusis. he walked on, trying to make himself agreeable now saying a few words to the dame, who generally gave him curt answers, and now addressing nelly. as he had plenty to say for himself, she could not help being amused, and his conversation served to beguile the way over the somewhat dreary country they had to pass till the neighbourhood of helston was reached. he accompanied them in the ferry-boat which took them across to the town on the other side of the shallow estuary or lake on which it is built. as they had now to go from house to house to sell their fish, he had to leave them, believing, however, that he should have no difficulty in finding them again when their creels were empty. the town was at that time quiet enough, for all the shops were closed, and most of the young men and maidens, as well as large parties of children, had gone into the surrounding woods to cut boughs and gather wild flowers. the housewives, however, were eager to purchase their fresh-caught pilchards, to make into huge pasties, which, with clotted cream, forms the favourite cornish dish. they had already disposed of a considerable portion of their freight, when they saw a large party approaching along the principal thoroughfare. it consisted of a number of young people, boys and girls, their heads decked with wreaths of flowers, and holding in their hands green boughs, which they waved to and fro as they advanced, singing- "once more the merry month of may has come, and driven old winter away; and so as now green boughs we bring, we merrily dance and merrily sing. no more we dread the frost and snow, no more the winter breezes blow; but summer suns and azure skies warm our hearts and please our eyes. and so we dance and so we sing, and here our woodland trophies bring; hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra! what can with our flurry dance compare?" thus the merry party went dancing and singing through the town, every one running out from their houses to greet and applaud them. a large number of carriages and vehicles of all sorts now appeared, conveying the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who came in summer attire, decked with spring flowers, preceded by a band of music. they all assembled before the town hall, when the flurry dance commenced. rows of ladies and gentlemen formed opposite each other, then, moving forward, they set to each other in couples, and proceeded thus, dancing and singing, down the streets. garden-gates stood open, and many of the doors of the larger houses. through them the dancers entered, continuing their evolutions up and down the gravel walks and through the halls, all ranks and classes mingling together. all seemed in good humour; in spite of the exercise they were taking, none appeared fatigued or willing to stop. the flurry tune which was played is a peculiar one, evidently of great antiquity, and probably the custom had its origin as far back as the feast of flora, when pagan rites were performed in the country, or, perhaps, it originally was instituted to celebrate a victory over the saxons; or it may be a remnant of some old celtic observance. few of those who took part in it cared much about its origin. the young people enjoyed the amusement of dancing and singing, and their elders their holiday and relaxation from business. dame lanreath and nelly had disposed of all their fish before the flurry dance began; they thus had ample time to watch what was going forward, nelly kept close to her grandmother, although she met several of her acquaintances, who stopped to have a talk, and she might easily, had she not been on the watch, have lost her in the crowd. in the evening the grander people were to have a ball at the town hall; but as the dame and nelly took no interest in watching the ladies in their gay dresses stepping from their carriages, they, having seen enough of the flurry dance to satisfy their curiosity, set out in company with several of their friends on their walk homeward. they were just leaving the town, when eban cowan overtook nelly, who was in company with another girl a short distance behind dame lanreath. "nelly," said eban, "i was in a great fright lest i should miss you. you are going away without seeing half the fun of the day; the people are only just getting into the spirit of the dance. i wanted you to take off that creel and have a turn with me. among all the fine ladies there is not one can compare with you for beauty in my eyes, and many a lad there would have been jealous of me, in spite of the white dresses and bright flowers of the girls." nelly laughed, thinking that eban was joking. her companion, who believed the common report, that eban cowan was an admirer of nelly trefusis, and that she encouraged him, dropped behind and joined another party, and eban and nelly were left alone. he at once changed his tone, which showed that he was deeply in earnest. "nelly," he said, "i have sought you for long years, and however others may admire you, they cannot care for you as i do--my love surpasses theirs a hundredfold. i can give you a comfortable home, and make you equal to any of the fine ladies we have been watching to-day. you need no longer carry that creel on your back, and slave as you have been doing, if you will become my wife. i tell you that i love you more than life itself, and ask you, will you marry me?" nelly would willingly have stopped eban from talking on, but had hitherto been unable to get in a word. "i have known you, eban cowan, since i way a girl, but i have never for one moment encouraged you to suppose that i would become your wife, and i now say positively that i cannot and will not. i thank you for all you have said to me, though i would rather you had left it unsaid; and i would wish to be friendly, as we have always been," she answered, firmly. "is that the only answer you can give me?" exclaimed eban. "i can give no other," replied nelly. "do you never intend to marry, then?" asked eban. "i am not compelled to tell you my intentions," said nelly. "do you love any one else? because i shall then know how to act," exclaimed eban. nelly thought for a moment. "i will tell him; it will be the kindest thing to do, as he will then understand that i can never marry him, and wisely seek another wife." "yes, eban cowan, i do love another," she said, in a low voice. "i love michael penguyne, and can be no other man's wife than his. you have long called him your friend; let him be your friend still, but give up all thoughts of me." "i now know how to act," muttered eban, gloomily. "i had no idea that you cared for him; and if you choose to become a poor fisherman's wife, you must follow your own course; only, do not suppose that i can cease to love you." "i cannot listen to what you say," exclaimed nelly, walking on rapidly, and feeling very indignant at eban's last remark. he did not attempt to follow her, and she soon overtook dame lanreath and the friends who were accompanying her. when she looked round, eban had disappeared. she felt greatly relieved at having got rid of him, and she hoped that, notwithstanding what he had said, he would abandon all hopes of becoming her husband. eban went home by another path, muttering fiercely that he would not be balked, and that michael should pay dearly for coming between him and the girl he loved. people little know, when they give way to their unbridled passions, into what crimes they may be led. day after day eban cowan pondered over his rejection by nelly, and chose to consider himself especially ill-treated. "she should have let me know years ago that she intended to marry that fellow. how can she think of preferring him, a poor, hard-working lad, to me?" he exclaimed; and dreadful thoughts came into his mind. he made no attempt to drive them from him. chapter nine. the autumn was drawing on. the pilchard harvest had not been as successful as the fishermen desired, and they kept their boats at sea in the hopes of obtaining a share of the schools of fish which still hovered off their coasts. the drift-nets now could only be used with any prospect of success, and michael was as active and energetic as ever. he had, indeed, greater reason for working hard, as nelly had promised to become his wife in the ensuing spring. he wished to make every preparation in his power that she might begin her married life with as much comfort as a fisherman's wife could hope to do. "only we must look after granny too, and try to save her the long trudges she has had to make; and repay her, though that would be a hard matter, for all the care she took of us when we were young," he observed to nelly, as they were talking over their future prospects. nelly heartily agreed with him; but when dame lanreath heard of their intentions, she laughed at the notion of giving up her daily walks to market. "more reason for nelly to stay at home to look after the house. wait a bit till my limbs grow stiffer than they are as yet, and till she has got a little damsel of her own to trot alongside her as she used to trot alongside me," she answered. "but, granny, i have been thinking of getting little mary lanaherne, uncle reuben's granddaughter, to go to market with me while you stay at home; she is quite ready to agree to my plan," said nelly. "ah, i see you want to become a fine lady now you are going to marry, and have an attendant of your own," said the dame, laughing. "bide a bit till you have need of help, and let my old limbs wag on while they have life in them." "that will be for many years to come, i hope, granny," said michael; "and to my eyes you don't seem to have become a day older since i first remember you, and that's longer than i can remember anything else; for i mind you holding me in your arms when father came home one day and gave me a fish to play with." "that was a good bit ago, michael, to be sure, and i should not like to have to lift you up now, lad, strong as my arms still are," answered the old dame, looking approvingly at the fine manly young fisherman as he stood before her. nelly, too, gave him a glance of tender affection, and all three laughed merrily. their hearts were light, for though theirs was a life of toil they willingly undertook their daily tasks, and were thankful for the blessings bestowed on them. "it is time for me to be off," said michael; "uncle reuben stays on shore this evening, so i am to act captain. we shall be back, i hope, soon after ten, as he always wishes us to be home early on saturday night, and as the weather looks pretty thick, and there is a nice lop of a sea on, we may expect to get a good haul." michael kissed nelly's clear brow, and bestowed his usual "buss," as he called it, on granny's withered cheek; then shouldering his oilskin coat, he took his way towards the landing-place at the mouth of the harbour. david and the rest of his crew were sitting about on the rocks with their short pipes in their mouths in readiness to go on board. uncle reuben had come down to see them off, and seemed half inclined to accompany them. "if it were not for these aches in my back and sides, and that i promised my dame to stay on shore this evening, i would go with you, lads. but keep your weather eyes open. i cannot say i quite like the look of the weather. it may turn out fine, but it is very thick away to the southward." "it will be fine enough for what we want, uncle reuben, and the `sea-gull' does not mind a bit of a swell and a stiffish breeze, and we shall be back again almost before there is time to send a second hand to the bellows," answered michael. "god go with you, lads," said the old fisherman as the lads sprang on board. "if the weather gets worse, haul your nets and make the best of your way back. we will keep the light burning on the point, so that you will not miss your road into harbour at all events." the "sea-gull" was shoved off, the oars got out, and, with her attendant drift-boat towing ahead, her hardy crew soon swept her out of the harbour. her tanned sails were then hoisted, and, close-hauled, she stood away to beat up to her intended fishing-grounds some distance to the southward, off the gull rock. the old fisherman stood watching her for some time, more than once saying to himself, "i wish that i had gone, the trip would not have hurt me; but michael is a careful lad, and, even if the weather does come on bad, he will not risk staying out longer than is prudent." bad, indeed, there shortly appeared every probability of the weather becoming. dark green seas came rolling in crested with foam, and breaking with increasing loudness of sound on the rocky shore; the wind whistled and howled louder and louder. uncle reuben buttoned up his coat to the chin as he gazed seaward. at last his daughter came to call him in to tea. "mother says you will be making yourself worse, father, standing out in the cold and damp." he obeyed the summons; still he could not help every now and then getting up and going to the door to see what the weather was like; each time he came back with a less favourable report. as it grew dark, in spite of his dame's expostulations he again went out and proceeded to the point, where he was also joined by three or four men, who had come either to attend to the beacon which was kept burning on dark nights, or to look out for the fishing-boats which they expected would at once return in consequence of the bad weather which had now in earnest set in. as soon as michael had left his home, a young girl, the child of a neighbour who lived further up the harbour in the direction of the mill, came running to the cottage, saying that her mother was taken ill, and that as her father and brothers were away fishing, there was no one to stay with her while she went to call for the doctor. nelly at once offered to go and stay with the poor woman, and to do her best. "no, i will go," said dame lanreath; "maybe i shall be able to tell what is best to be done as well as the doctor himself. do you run on, nancy, and i will come and look after your mother." as the dame was not to be contradicted, nelly continued the work in which she was engaged, and her grandmother set off with active steps towards her neighbour's cottage. nelly had not been long alone when she heard a hasty footstep approaching. the door opened, and eban cowan stood before her. a dark frown was on his brow, his eyes she thought had a wild and fierce expression she had never before seen them wear. her heart sank within her, and she in vain tried to speak in her usually friendly tone. "good evening, eban; what brings you here at this hour?" she said, on seeing him stand gazing at her without uttering a word. "nelly, i have come to ask you a question, and as you answer it you will make me more happy than i have been for many a long day, or you will send me away a miserable wretch, and you will never, it may be, see me again." "i shall be sorry not to see you again, eban, for we have been friends from our earliest days, and i hoped that we should always remain so," answered nelly, mustering all the courage she possessed to speak calmly. "that is what drives me to desperation," he exclaimed. "nelly, is it true that you are going to marry michael penguyne?" "i hope so, if it is god's will, as you ask me to tell you," said nelly, firmly. "i fancied that you were his friend, as you always were mine. and, eban, i pray that you may not feel any ill-will towards either of us, because we love each other, and are sure we shall be happy together." "is that the only answer you have to give me?" exclaimed eban, hoarsely. "i can say nothing more nor less," said nelly, gently. "i am very sorry that my answer should make you unhappy, but you insisted on having it, and i can say nothing more." eban gazed at her for a moment, and appeared to be about to utter a threat, but he restrained himself, and turning hastily round rushed out of the cottage. she was thankful that he had gone, yet a feeling of undefined fear of what he might do in his present angry mood stole over her. she was well aware of his fierce and daring character, and she had heard from her granny of desperate deeds done by men whose addresses had been rejected by girls whom they professed to love. she earnestly wished that the dame would soon come back, that she might tell her what had occurred and consult what was best to be done. had nelly known what was passing in the dark mind of eban cowan she would indeed have had cause for alarm. instead of going homewards he proceeded down towards the mouth of the harbour. on turning the point he scanned the spot where the fishing-vessels lay at anchor, and observed that the "sea-gull," among others, was away. "she will be back early to-night," he muttered, "and michael will pass this way homeward by himself, but his home he shall never reach, if i have my will. i am not going to let him come between me and the girl i have all my life intended to marry; he has no right to her: she is too good for a poor hard-working fisherman like him, and he will make her drudge all the best days of her life. if he were out of the way she would soon come round and look on me as she used to do." much more to the same effect he thought, working himself up to do, without compunction, the fearful act he meditated. the pathway between the quay at the mouth of the harbour, where the fishing-vessels landed their cargoes, and michael's house, at one place between the cliffs and the water, became so narrow that two people could with difficulty pass each other. close to this spot, however, there existed a hollow in the rock, in which a person standing was completely concealed, especially on a dark night, when it might be passed by without discovering that any one was within. eban cowan stood for some time watching the distant horizon, and as the evening drew on he observed through the gloom two or three fishing-boats running under close-reefed sails for the harbour's mouth. "one of those is the `sea-gull'; i must not be seen in the neighbourhood, or i may be suspected," he muttered, taking his way towards the lurking-place from which he intended to rush out and commit the crime he meditated. satan, ever ready to encourage those who yield to his instigations, persuaded him that he could do the deed without being discovered, and again and again he thought of the happiness he should enjoy with the pretty nelly as his wife, as if the soul guilty of the blood of a fellow-creature could ever enjoy happiness! there he stood listening amid the roar of the fast-rising gale for the step of his victim. suddenly he thought-"but suppose she hates me, i shall have done a deed and gained nothing. she may suspect that i did it. why did i madly go and see her this evening? i had not intended to enter the cottage. had the dame not gone away i should not have thought of it. still, neither she nor any one else can swear that i am guilty. no eye will see me. the path is slippery: it will be supposed that he fell into the water." then at that moment a voice seemed to whisper to him the words michael had uttered long before, "god sees and hears and knows everything we do or say or think." it seemed to be that of michael, "the darkness is no darkness to him; the day and night to him are both alike." "oh, he sees me now; he knows what i am thinking of." the strong, daring smuggler trembled. "i cannot do it; miserable i may be, but i should be more miserable still if i had it ever present to my mind that i had killed in cold blood another man who never wished to offend me." he rushed from his concealment and threw the weapon he had hitherto clutched in his hand far away into the water. he was hurrying homewards, when he heard shouts coming up from the harbour's mouth. he caught the sounds; they were cries, for hands to man a boat. constitutionally brave, he was ready at that moment for any desperate service. he wanted something to drive away the fearful thoughts which agitated his mind; he dreaded being left to himself; he must be actively engaged or he should go mad, if he was not mad already. he hurried to the quay, alongside which a boat, kept ready for emergencies, was tossing up and down; she was not a life-boat, but still one well fitted to encounter heavy seas, and was used to go off to vessels which had got embayed or ran a risk of being driven on shore. "i am ready to go off, if you want another hand," he exclaimed. "you will do, and welcome. our number is now made up," answered uncle reuben, who was seated in the stern of the boat. eban leaped in. "whereabouts is the vessel in danger?" he asked. "i could not make her out." "she is my craft, the `sea-gull,'" said uncle reuben. "the `favourite,' which has just come in, saw her driving, with her mast gone, towards the gull rock, and if she strikes it there is no chance for her or the poor fellows on board. lord be merciful to them! we must do our best to try and save them, for no craft under sail will dare to stand near them, for fear of sharing their fate." eban knew that michael had gone away in the "sea-gull." should he risk his life to try and save that of his rival? he felt inclined to spring on shore again. the next instant uncle reuben gave the order to get out the oars. once actively engaged eban no longer wished to quit the boat, but the wild thought rose in his mind that michael might be lost, and then, his rival removed, that nelly would become his. in his selfishness he did not consider the grief she whom he professed to love would suffer; he, at all events, would not have inflicted it. he had not committed the crime he meditated, and yet might gain the object of his wishes. nelly had been anxiously waiting the return of dame lanreath; she was greatly agitated by eban's visit--unable to overcome the fear that he might do something desperate, but what that might be she could not tell. she frequently went to the door to see if her granny was coming. the night drew on, the fury of the storm increased. she thought of michael on the raging ocean engaged in hauling in his nets. the "sea-gull" would surely not remain out long in such weather; the fishing-vessels ought to be back by this time. she longed to run down to the harbour's mouth to ascertain if they had returned; then her granny might come in, and, finding her gone, not know what had become of her. the thought, too, that she might meet eban in his angry mood restrained her. "oh, what is going to happen?" she exclaimed, feeling more anxiety and alarm than she had ever before experienced. "o my dear, dear michael, why don't you come back to me? o merciful god, protect him!" she fell on her knees, hiding her face in her hands, and prayed for the safety of him who was on the foaming waters. she thought she heard her granny coming. she rose from the ground and, going to the door, looked out. no one was there; she heard the roaring of the breakers on the rocky coast, and the fierce wind howling up the wild glen, making the surface of the harbour bubble and hiss and foam, and sending the spray, mingled with the cold night wind, high up, even to where she stood. "i must go and learn why he does not come," she exclaimed. "oh, how i wish granny would come back! she may suffer harm coming along the rough path this bleak night in the dark." poor nelly felt in truth forlorn; but hers was a brave heart, which a fisherman's wife needs must have, or she could not endure the agitating suspense to which she must day after day throughout her life he exposed, when the tempest howls and the wild waves roar. she went in and put on her hood and cloak. in vain she strove to restrain her agitation. again she went to the door. she thought she saw through the thick gloom a figure approaching. "is that you, dear granny?" she cried out. "ay, nelly, though i have had a hard battle with the wind," answered dame lanreath, in her usually cheery voice. "but my journey is ended, and it was well i went to poor polly penduck when i did, for she was in a bad way; the doctor, however, has been with her, and she is all right now." nelly had run forward to lead her grandmother into the house, and she spoke the latter words on her way. "why, my child, what is the matter with you?" exclaimed the dame, as she saw her pale and agitated countenance. before nelly could answer, footsteps were heard outside. she hurried back to the door. "oh! can it be michael coming?" exclaimed nelly. "michael, michael, are you there?" "no, we be paul and joseph penduck," answered two young voices. "we are on our way home to mother." "your mother is well and sleeping, but do not make a noise, lads, when you go in," exclaimed dame lanreath, who had followed nelly to the door. "why are you in such a hurry?" "we needs be to get out of the storm, dame," answered one of the boys. "father told us to make haste home; but he has gone off in the `rescue' with uncle reuben lanaherne to look after the `sea-gull,' which they say has lost her mast, and was seen driving on the gull rock; there is little hope of any of the poor lads escaping aboard her." "what is that you say," shrieked poor nelly; "the `sea-gull' driving on shore?" "i forgot, mistress nelly, that michael penguyne was aboard her," answered the thoughtless boy. "i would not have said it to frighten you so, but it may be father and the others will find them if they are not all drowned before they get there." "o granny, i was afraid something dreadful was happening," exclaimed nelly, gasping for breath. "i must go down to the harbour's mouth. i do not mind the wind and rain; don't stop me, granny," for dame lanreath had taken nelly's arm, thinking she was about to fall, she trembled so violently. "let me go, granny, that i may hold him in my arms, and warm him, and breathe into his mouth when he is brought on shore. oh, i shall die if i stay at home, and he out struggling maybe for life in the cold foaming seas." "but the lads may be mistaken, dear nelly," urged dame lanreath; "it may not be the `sea-gull' that has met with the damage, and if she has michael and the rest, who are stout lads and know how to handle her, they may manage to keep her off the rocks, and get in safe notwithstanding." nelly, however, was not to be reasoned with. she knew the way to the harbour's mouth in the darkest night as well as by daylight; the rain and wind were nothing to her, and if michael had got safe on shore her anxiety would the sooner be set at rest, and she should be ready to welcome him. the dame, finding that she could not persuade nelly to remain at home, insisted on accompanying her, for though she had tried to make her believe that michael would return in safety, she herself could not help entertaining the fear that he had shared the fate of the many she had known in her time who had lost their lives on the treacherous ocean. nelly was not selfish, and though she felt that she must go forth, she was anxious that her granny should not again face the cruel storm. the dame, however, was determined to go, for she felt scarcely less anxiety than nelly. "well, nelly," she said at length, "if you won't let me go with you, i will just go by myself, and you must stay at home till i come back and tell you that michael has got on shore all safe." nelly yielded. she and the dame set off. they had a fierce battle to fight with the storm, which blew directly in their faces. they worked their way onwards, holding their cloaks tight round them. they at last reached the rocky point where, by the light of the beacon, they saw a group of men and women and boys and girls collected, with their gaze turned seaward, waiting anxiously for the appearance of the boat which had gone out over the dark and troubled ocean in search of their missing friends. the dame and nelly anxiously inquired what had happened. the answer made their hearts sink: the "sea-gull" had last been seen driving towards the rocks in an almost helpless condition; she might drop an anchor, but there was little expectation that it would hold. the only hope was that she might be reached before she was finally dashed to pieces, and those on board her had perished. chapter ten. the "rescue" gallantly made her way amid the dark foam-crested seas, which rolled in from the westward, each appearing heavier than its predecessor. uncle reuben kept gazing out ahead in anxious search of his little vessel, now encouraging his crew with the hopes that they would soon reach the spot which she must have reached, feeling his own heart, however, sink within him as he sought in vain to find her across the wildly tossing waters. the men needed no encouragement: they knew as well as he did that every moment was precious, and yet that after all they might arrive too late. eban pulled as hard as the rest; he would do his utmost to save the crew of the "sea-gull," yet he darkly hoped that their efforts might be vain. on they pulled; often reuben had to turn the boat's head to breast a threatening sea which, caught on the broadside, might have hurled her over. now again he urged his crew to redoubled efforts during a temporary lull. for some time he had been silent, keeping his eye on a dark spot ahead. it must be the "sea-gull." she was already fearfully near the rocks. the water there was too deep to allow her anchor to hold long, if holding it was at all. another fierce wave came rolling towards them. eager as uncle reuben was to make his way onward, he was compelled to put the boat's head towards it, and to give all his attention to avoid being buried beneath the foaming billows. the boat rose safely to its summit. a glance seaward told him that now was the time once more to make way to the south. he looked eagerly for his little vessel; the same sea had struck her. he caught but one glimpse of her hull as she was dashed helplessly against the rocks. still some of those on board might escape. every effort must be made to save them. though reuben told his crew what had happened, none hesitated to pull on. the boat approached the rock, her crew shouted to encourage those who might be clinging to it. the "sea-gull" had struck on the northernmost point, within which the sea, though surging and boiling, was comparatively quiet; and reuben was thus enabled to get nearer to the rock than he could have ventured to do on the outside, where it broke with a fury which would quickly have overwhelmed the boat. two men were distinguished through the gloom clinging to the rock, at the foot of which fragments of the hapless "sea-gull" were tossing up and down in the foaming waves. another sea such as that which wrecked their vessel might at any moment wash the men from their hold. a rope was hove to them, they fastened it round their waists and were dragged on board. they proved to be reuben's two sons. the father's heart was relieved, but he thought of his brave young captain. "where is michael, where are the rest?" he exclaimed. "gone, gone, father, i fear!" was the answer. "no, no! i see two more clinging to a spar!" shouted one of the men. "the sea is carrying it away, but the next will hurl it back on the rocks, and heaven protect them, for the life will be knocked out of their bodies." to approach the spot in the boat, however, was impossible without the certainty of her being dashed to pieces. "here, hand the bight of the rope to me," shouted eban, starting up; "i am the best swimmer among you--if any one can save them i can." as he uttered the words he sprang overboard, and with powerful strokes made his way towards the drowning men, while the rest, pulling hard, kept the boat off the rocks, to which she was perilously near. "here, here, take him, he is almost gone," said one of the men in the water, as eban approached them. "i can hold on longer." eban, grasping the man round the waist and shouting to those in the boat, was hauled up to her stern with his burden. reuben, assisted by the man pulling the stroke oar, lifted the rescued man into the boat, and eban once more dashed off to try and save the other. "who is it? who is it?" asked the crew, with one voice, for the darkness prevented them from distinguishing his countenance. no one replied. reuben hoped it might be michael--but all his attention was required for the management of the boat, and the rescued man, exhausted, if not severely injured, was unable to reply himself. eban was gallantly striking out towards the man who still clung to the spar, but he had miscalculated his strength--he made less rapid way than at first. a cry reached him, "help, mate! help!" he redoubled his efforts; but before he could reach the spot he saw a hand raised up, and as he grasped the spar he found that it was deserted. the brave fellow, whoever he was, had sacrificed his own life to save that of his drowning companion. eban, feeling that his own strength was going, shouted to those in the boat to haul him on board, and he was himself well-nigh exhausted when lifted over the side. one of reuben's sons took his oar. all further search for their missing friends proved in vain, and though thankful that some had been saved, with sad hearts they commenced their perilous return to the harbour. reuben's younger son, simon lanaherne, had gone aft and sat down by the side of the rescued man. "he is coming to, i believe." "which of the poor lads is he, simon?" asked his father. simon felt the man's face and dress, bending his head down to try and scan his features. "i cannot quite make out; but i am nearly sure it is michael penguyne," answered simon. "i am main glad if it be he, for poor nelly's sake," said reuben. "pull up your starboard oars, lads, here comes a sea," he shouted, and a tremendous wave came curling up from the westward. the attention of every one was engaged in encountering the threatened danger. "michael penguyne! have i saved him?" muttered eban cowan, with a deep groan. "he was destined to live through all dangers, then, and nelly is lost to me. fool that i was to risk my life when i might have lot him drown. no one could have said that i was guilty of his death." human ear did not listen to the words he uttered, and a voice came to him, "you would have been guilty of his death if you could have saved him and would not." he had recovered sufficiently to sit up, and, as he gazed at the angry sea around, his experienced eye told him that even now he and all with him might be engulfed beneath it ere they could reach the shore. -----------------------------------------------------------------------nelly and her grandmother stood with the group of anxious watchers near the beacon-fire, straining their eyes in a vain endeavour to pierce the gloom which hung over the ocean. they could hear the sea's savage roar as it lashed the rocks at their feet and sent the spray flying over them; but they could only see the white crests of the waves as they rose and fell, and every instant it seemed to their loving hearts that these fierce waves came in with greater force than heretofore. could the "rescue," stout and well-formed as she was, live amid that fierce tumult of waters? might not those who had bravely gone forth to save their fellow-creatures, too probably perish with them? still, notwithstanding their fears, they listened hoping to hear the cry which those in the boat would raise as they drew near the shore, should success have attended their efforts. again and again they asked each other, if the boat would not now be returning? oh! how long the time seemed since they went away! a short half-hour had often sufficed to go to the gull rock and back. an hour or more had elapsed since the "rescue" left the harbour, and no sign of her could be discerned. "we must take into account the heavy seas she will have to meet; they will keep her busy for a goodish time with her bows towards them," observed an old fisherman. "uncle reuben knows what he is about, and if there is a man can steer the `rescue' on a night like this he can. a worse sea, in which a boat might live, i never saw. there is little likelihood of its getting better either, by the look of the sky." the last remark was not encouraging; still, while a possibility remained of the return of the boat, none among the anxious group would, in spite of the rain and spray and fierce wind, leave the point. at length a sharp-eyed youngster darted forward to the extreme end of the rock, at the risk of being washed off by the next breaker which dashed against it. "i see her! i see her!" he shouted. there was a rush forward. dame lanreath held her granddaughter back. "you cannot bring them in sooner, nelly," she said, "and, my child, prepare your heart for what god may have ordered. seek for strength, nelly, to be able to say, `thy will be done!'" "i am trying," groaned nelly; "but o granny, why do you say that?" "it is better to be prepared for bad tidings before they come," answered the dame; "but it maybe that god has willed that michael should be saved, and so let us be ready with a grateful heart to welcome him; but whichever way it is, remember that it is for the best." the dame herself, notwithstanding what she said, felt her own heart depressed. a simultaneous shout arose from the men and boys who had gone to the end of the point. "the boat! the boat! it is her, no doubt about it," they cried out, and then most of them hurried away to the landing-place to welcome their friends and assist them on shore. the dame and nelly followed them. some still remained at the point, knowing that there was yet another danger to be passed at the very entrance of the harbour, for a cross sea breaking at its mouth might hurl the boat, in spite of the efforts of the rowers, against the rocks, and those who had toiled so long, worn out with fatigue, would require assistance, for, unaided, their lives might be lost. as the boat drew near her crew raised a shout in return to the greeting, of their friends. perfect silence followed as the "rescue" neared the dangerous point. in an instant it was passed, though a sea breaking over her deluged the crew. "are they all saved?" shouted several voices. "some, but not all; but our boys are here: tell my dame," shouted reuben as the boat glided by. nelly heard the answer. with trembling knees she stood on the landing-place supported by dame lanreath, while the light of several lanterns fell on the boat and the figures of those in her as she came alongside. eager hands were ready to help the well-nigh exhausted crew on shore. nelly tried to distinguish the countenances of the men--the light falling on her pale face as she stooped over. "he is here, nelly; michael is safe," cried uncle reuben, and simon, with two or three others, speedily assisted michael on shore. nelly, regardless of those around, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed his lips and cheeks, while the dame with others helped him to move away from the quay. "i shall soon be strong again, nelly," he whispered. "god be praised for his mercies to us. my sorest thought was, as i felt myself in the breakers, that you and granny would be left without me to help you." at the moment that nelly's arms were about her betrothed, a man in the boat, refusing the aid of others, sprang on shore. as he passed, dame lanreath caught a glimpse of the haggard features of eban cowan. he rushed on without stopping to receive the greetings of any of those gathered on the quay, and was quickly lost to sight as he made his way up the glen. "eban seems in a strange mood," observed simon. "he might have stopped till michael and all of us had thanked him for his brave act; he seems as if he was sorry he had done it, or was wishing that he was with the other poor fellows who are lying out there among the rocks." michael was too weak to walk. uncle reuben invited him to come to his cottage; but he wished to return home, and there was no lack of willing arms to carry him. "where is david treloar?" he asked. "if it had not been for him i should have been washed off the spar, but he held me on till i was hauled on board." "david! poor fellow! he is among those who are gone," was the answer. "if it was he who was on the spar with you, he would not, it seems, quit it till he thought you were safe; and meantime his strength must have gone before help could reach him." "then he lost his life to save mine," said michael, deeply grieved. "and how was i saved?" "by that brave fellow, eban cowan, who jumped overboard, and brought you on board," answered uncle reuben. "where is he, that i may shake him by the hand, and thank him?" inquired michael; but eban was not to be found. michael hoped the next morning to be able to go to the mill and thank eban. nelly wondered at what she heard, recollecting eban's visit to her a few hours before; but she said nothing. indeed, by that time, with a sail, a litter had been rigged, on which his friends carried michael to his cottage, dame lanreath and nelly following them. the rest of the population of the village hastened to their homes, several with hearts grieving for those who had been lost. they did not, however, find any lack of friends to comfort them--for all could sympathise where all knew that the like misfortune might some day happen to themselves. uncle reuben, too, had ample cause for grief. the little vessel on which he depended for the subsistence of his family had gone to pieces, and it would be a hard matter to obtain another. and honest david and the other lads in whom he was interested were gone; but his young boys were saved, and he felt thankful for the mercies granted him. michael, carefully watched over by nelly, and doctored by the dame, soon recovered his strength. as soon as he was strong enough, he told nelly that he must go and tell eban how thankful he was to him for saving his life. nelly, on this, gave him an account of what had occurred on that eventful evening of the wreck. he was greatly astonished. "but he is a brave fellow, nelly; and though i cannot say what i should have been ready to do to him had i known it before, yet he saved my life, and risked his to do so, and i must not forget that. i must forget all else, and go and thank him heartily." "go, michael," said nelly, "and tell him that i bless him from my heart, and wish him every happiness; but do not ask him to come here. it is better for his sake he should not be seeing me and fancying that i can ever care for him." michael promised to behave discreetly in the matter, and set off. the heavy gale was still blowing. he wondered as he went along how the path was so much steeper and rougher than it used to be, not aware how greatly his strength had decreased. on reaching the mill he saw old cowan standing at the door. he inquired for eban. "where is he? that's more than i can tell you, lad," he answered. "he went away the other evening and has not since come back. i do not inquire after his movements, and so i suppose it is all right." michael then told the old man of the service his son had rendered him. "glad he saved thy life, lad; he is a brave fellow, no doubt of that; but it is strange that he should not have come in to have his clothes dried and get some rest." none of the household could give any further account of eban. michael, again expressing such thanks as his heart prompted, returned home. several days passed and rumours came that eban had been seen on the way to falmouth: and his father, who had become anxious about him, setting off, discovered that he had gone on board a large ship which had put in there to seek shelter from the gale. he had left no message, and no letter was received by any of his family to say why he had gone, or what were his intentions for the future. during the winter two or three seizures of smuggled goods were made; they belonged to the band of which eban was supposed to have been the leader: and old cowan, whose venture it was known they were, became gradually downcast and desponding. his fishing-boats were unsuccessful; he offered one for sale, which uncle reuben and michael purchased between them; another was lost; and, his mill being burned down, he died soon afterwards broken-hearted, leaving his family in utter destitution. in the spring michael and nelly married. the wedding, if not a very gay one, was the merriest which had occurred in the village for many a day, nor were any of the usual customs in that part of cornwall omitted. dame lanreath declared that she felt younger than she had been for the last ten years, or twenty for that matter, and uncle reuben had recovered from his rheumatism with the warm spring weather. the pilchard harvest in that year was unusually early and abundant, and michael was able to increase the size of his house and improve its appearance, while he gave his young wife many comforts, which he declared no one so well deserved. no one disputed the point; indeed, all agreed that a finer and happier young couple was not to be found along the cornish coast. they were grateful to god for the happiness they enjoyed, and while they prayed that it might be prolonged, and that their lives might be spared, they did not forget that he who had the power to give had the right to take away. but, trusting to his mercy and loving-kindness, they hoped that he would think fit to protect them during their lives on earth, while they could with confidence look forward to that glorious future where there will be no more sorrow and no more parting. the end. distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net tales of the fish patrol by jack london author of "the sea-wolf," "people of the abyss," "the call of the wild," etc. _with illustrations by george varian_ new york the macmillan company london: macmillan & co., ltd. 1905 _all rights reserved_ copyright, 1905, by perry mason company. copyright, 1905, by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published september, 1905. reprinted december, 1905. norwood press j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith co. norwood, mass., u.s.a. [illustration: "i put my hand to my hip pocket."] works of jack london the game the sea-wolf the call of the wild the children of the frost people of the abyss the faith of men and other stories war of the classes the kempton-wace letters tales of the fish patrol published by the macmillan company contents page i. white and yellow 9 ii. the king of the greeks 39 iii. a raid on the oyster pirates 71 iv. the siege of the "lancashire queen" 103 v. charley's coup 139 vi. demetrios contos 175 vii. yellow handkerchief 209 illustrations "i put my hand to my hip pocket" _frontispiece_ facing page map 11 "he saw fit to laugh and sneer at us, before all the fishermen" 60 "the centipede and the porpoise doubled up on the cabin in paroxysms of laughter" 86 "i suddenly arose and threw the grappling iron" 116 "the consternation we spread among the fishermen was tremendous" 158 "there, in the stern, sat demetrios contos" 204 "i went aft and took charge of the prize" 218 tales of the fish patrol i white and yellow [illustration: map] san francisco bay is so large that often its storms are more disastrous to ocean-going craft than is the ocean itself in its violent moments. the waters of the bay contain all manner of fish, wherefore its surface is ploughed by the keels of all manner of fishing boats manned by all manner of fishermen. to protect the fish from this motley floating population many wise laws have been passed, and there is a fish patrol to see that these laws are enforced. exciting times are the lot of the fish patrol: in its history more than one dead patrolman has marked defeat, and more often dead fishermen across their illegal nets have marked success. wildest among the fisher-folk may be accounted the chinese shrimp-catchers. it is the habit of the shrimp to crawl along the bottom in vast armies till it reaches fresh water, when it turns about and crawls back again to the salt. and where the tide ebbs and flows, the chinese sink great bag-nets to the bottom, with gaping mouths, into which the shrimp crawls and from which it is transferred to the boiling-pot. this in itself would not be bad, were it not for the small mesh of the nets, so small that the tiniest fishes, little new-hatched things not a quarter of an inch long, cannot pass through. the beautiful beaches of points pedro and pablo, where are the shrimp-catchers villages, are made fearful by the stench from myriads of decaying fish, and against this wasteful destruction it has ever been the duty of the fish patrol to act. when i was a youngster of sixteen, a good sloop-sailor and all-round bay-waterman, my sloop, the _reindeer_, was chartered by the fish commission, and i became for the time being a deputy patrolman. after a deal of work among the greek fishermen of the upper bay and rivers, where knives flashed at the beginning of trouble and men permitted themselves to be made prisoners only after a revolver was thrust in their faces, we hailed with delight an expedition to the lower bay against the chinese shrimp-catchers. there were six of us, in two boats, and to avoid suspicion we ran down after dark and dropped anchor under a projecting bluff of land known as point pinole. as the east paled with the first light of dawn we got under way again, and hauled close on the land breeze as we slanted across the bay toward point pedro. the morning mists curled and clung to the water so that we could see nothing, but we busied ourselves driving the chill from our bodies with hot coffee. also we had to devote ourselves to the miserable task of bailing, for in some incomprehensible way the _reindeer_ had sprung a generous leak. half the night had been spent in overhauling the ballast and exploring the seams, but the labor had been without avail. the water still poured in, and perforce we doubled up in the cockpit and tossed it out again. after coffee, three of the men withdrew to the other boat, a columbia river salmon boat, leaving three of us in the _reindeer_. then the two craft proceeded in company till the sun showed over the eastern skyline. its fiery rays dispelled the clinging vapors, and there, before our eyes, like a picture, lay the shrimp fleet, spread out in a great half-moon, the tips of the crescent fully three miles apart, and each junk moored fast to the buoy of a shrimp-net. but there was no stir, no sign of life. the situation dawned upon us. while waiting for slack water, in which to lift their heavy nets from the bed of the bay, the chinese had all gone to sleep below. we were elated, and our plan of battle was swiftly formed. "throw each of your two men on to a junk," whispered le grant to me from the salmon boat. "and you make fast to a third yourself. we'll do the same, and there's no reason in the world why we shouldn't capture six junks at the least." then we separated. i put the _reindeer_ about on the other tack, ran up under the lee of a junk, shivered the mainsail into the wind and lost headway, and forged past the stern of the junk so slowly and so near that one of the patrolmen stepped lightly aboard. then i kept off, filled the mainsail, and bore away for a second junk. up to this time there had been no noise, but from the first junk captured by the salmon boat an uproar now broke forth. there was shrill oriental yelling, a pistol shot, and more yelling. "it's all up. they're warning the others," said george, the remaining patrolman, as he stood beside me in the cockpit. by this time we were in the thick of the fleet, and the alarm was spreading with incredible swiftness. the decks were beginning to swarm with half-awakened and half-naked chinese. cries and yells of warning and anger were flying over the quiet water, and somewhere a conch shell was being blown with great success. to the right of us i saw the captain of a junk chop away his mooring line with an axe and spring to help his crew at the hoisting of the huge, outlandish lug-sail. but to the left the first heads were popping up from below on another junk, and i rounded up the _reindeer_ alongside long enough for george to spring aboard. the whole fleet was now under way. in addition to the sails they had gotten out long sweeps, and the bay was being ploughed in every direction by the fleeing junks. i was now alone in the _reindeer_, seeking feverishly to capture a third prize. the first junk i took after was a clean miss, for it trimmed its sheets and shot away surprisingly into the wind. by fully half a point it outpointed the _reindeer_, and i began to feel respect for the clumsy craft. realizing the hopelessness of the pursuit, i filled away, threw out the main-sheet, and drove down before the wind upon the junks to leeward, where i had them at a disadvantage. the one i had selected wavered indecisively before me, and, as i swung wide to make the boarding gentle, filled suddenly and darted away, the swart mongols shouting a wild rhythm as they bent to the sweeps. but i had been ready for this. i luffed suddenly. putting the tiller hard down, and holding it down with my body, i brought the main-sheet in, hand over hand, on the run, so as to retain all possible striking force. the two starboard sweeps of the junk were crumpled up, and then the two boats came together with a crash. the _reindeer's_ bowsprit, like a monstrous hand, reached over and ripped out the junk's chunky mast and towering sail. this was met by a curdling yell of rage. a big chinaman, remarkably evil-looking, with his head swathed in a yellow silk handkerchief and face badly pock-marked, planted a pike-pole on the _reindeer's_ bow and began to shove the entangled boats apart. pausing long enough to let go the jib halyards, and just as the _reindeer_ cleared and began to drift astern, i leaped aboard the junk with a line and made fast. he of the yellow handkerchief and pock-marked face came toward me threateningly, but i put my hand into my hip pocket, and he hesitated. i was unarmed, but the chinese have learned to be fastidiously careful of american hip pockets, and it was upon this that i depended to keep him and his savage crew at a distance. i ordered him to drop the anchor at the junk's bow, to which he replied, "no sabbe." the crew responded in like fashion, and though i made my meaning plain by signs, they refused to understand. realizing the inexpediency of discussing the matter, i went forward myself, overran the line, and let the anchor go. "now get aboard, four of you," i said in a loud voice, indicating with my fingers that four of them were to go with me and the fifth was to remain by the junk. the yellow handkerchief hesitated; but i repeated the order fiercely (much more fiercely than i felt), at the same time sending my hand to my hip. again the yellow handkerchief was overawed, and with surly looks he led three of his men aboard the _reindeer_. i cast off at once, and, leaving the jib down, steered a course for george's junk. here it was easier, for there were two of us, and george had a pistol to fall back on if it came to the worst. and here, as with my junk, four chinese were transferred to the sloop and one left behind to take care of things. four more were added to our passenger list from the third junk. by this time the salmon boat had collected its twelve prisoners and came alongside, badly overloaded. to make matters worse, as it was a small boat, the patrolmen were so jammed in with their prisoners that they would have little chance in case of trouble. "you'll have to help us out," said le grant. i looked over my prisoners, who had crowded into the cabin and on top of it. "i can take three," i answered. "make it four," he suggested, "and i'll take bill with me." (bill was the third patrolman.) "we haven't elbow room here, and in case of a scuffle one white to every two of them will be just about the right proportion." the exchange was made, and the salmon boat got up its spritsail and headed down the bay toward the marshes off san rafael. i ran up the jib and followed with the _reindeer_. san rafael, where we were to turn our catch over to the authorities, communicated with the bay by way of a long and tortuous slough, or marshland creek, which could be navigated only when the tide was in. slack water had come, and, as the ebb was commencing, there was need for hurry if we cared to escape waiting half a day for the next tide. but the land breeze had begun to die away with the rising sun, and now came only in failing puffs. the salmon boat got out its oars and soon left us far astern. some of the chinese stood in the forward part of the cockpit, near the cabin doors, and once, as i leaned over the cockpit rail to flatten down the jib-sheet a bit, i felt some one brush against my hip pocket. i made no sign, but out of the corner of my eye i saw that the yellow handkerchief had discovered the emptiness of the pocket which had hitherto overawed him. to make matters serious, during all the excitement of boarding the junks the _reindeer_ had not been bailed, and the water was beginning to slush over the cockpit floor. the shrimp-catchers pointed at it and looked to me questioningly. "yes," i said. "bime by, allee same dlown, velly quick, you no bail now. sabbe?" no, they did not "sabbe," or at least they shook their heads to that effect, though they chattered most comprehendingly to one another in their own lingo. i pulled up three or four of the bottom boards, got a couple of buckets from a locker, and by unmistakable sign-language invited them to fall to. but they laughed, and some crowded into the cabin and some climbed up on top. their laughter was not good laughter. there was a hint of menace in it, a maliciousness which their black looks verified. the yellow handkerchief, since his discovery of my empty pocket, had become most insolent in his bearing, and he wormed about among the other prisoners, talking to them with great earnestness. swallowing my chagrin, i stepped down into the cockpit and began throwing out the water. but hardly had i begun, when the boom swung overhead, the mainsail filled with a jerk, and the _reindeer_ heeled over. the day wind was springing up. george was the veriest of landlubbers, so i was forced to give over bailing and take the tiller. the wind was blowing directly off point pedro and the high mountains behind, and because of this was squally and uncertain, half the time bellying the canvas out, and the other half flapping it idly. george was about the most all-round helpless man i had ever met. among his other disabilities, he was a consumptive, and i knew that if he attempted to bail, it might bring on a hemorrhage. yet the rising water warned me that something must be done. again i ordered the shrimp-catchers to lend a hand with the buckets. they laughed defiantly, and those inside the cabin, the water up to their ankles, shouted back and forth with those on top. "you'd better get out your gun and make them bail," i said to george. but he shook his head and showed all too plainly that he was afraid. the chinese could see the funk he was in as well as i could, and their insolence became insufferable. those in the cabin broke into the food lockers, and those above scrambled down and joined them in a feast on our crackers and canned goods. "what do we care?" george said weakly. i was fuming with helpless anger. "if they get out of hand, it will be too late to care. the best thing you can do is to get them in check right now." the water was rising higher and higher, and the gusts, forerunners of a steady breeze, were growing stiffer and stiffer. and between the gusts, the prisoners, having gotten away with a week's grub, took to crowding first to one side and then to the other till the _reindeer_ rocked like a cockle-shell. yellow handkerchief approached me, and, pointing out his village on the point pedro beach, gave me to understand that if i turned the _reindeer_ in that direction and put them ashore, they, in turn, would go to bailing. by now the water in the cabin was up to the bunks, and the bed-clothes were sopping. it was a foot deep on the cockpit floor. nevertheless i refused, and i could see by george's face that he was disappointed. "if you don't show some nerve, they'll rush us and throw us overboard," i said to him. "better give me your revolver, if you want to be safe." "the safest thing to do," he chattered cravenly, "is to put them ashore. i, for one, don't want to be drowned for the sake of a handful of dirty chinamen." "and i, for another, don't care to give in to a handful of dirty chinamen to escape drowning," i answered hotly. "you'll sink the _reindeer_ under us all at this rate," he whined. "and what good that'll do i can't see." "every man to his taste," i retorted. he made no reply, but i could see he was trembling pitifully. between the threatening chinese and the rising water he was beside himself with fright; and, more than the chinese and the water, i feared him and what his fright might impel him to do. i could see him casting longing glances at the small skiff towing astern, so in the next calm i hauled the skiff alongside. as i did so his eyes brightened with hope; but before he could guess my intention, i stove the frail bottom through with a hand-axe, and the skiff filled to its gunwales. "it's sink or float together," i said. "and if you'll give me your revolver, i'll have the _reindeer_ bailed out in a jiffy." "they're too many for us," he whimpered. "we can't fight them all." i turned my back on him in disgust. the salmon boat had long since passed from sight behind a little archipelago known as the marin islands, so no help could be looked for from that quarter. yellow handkerchief came up to me in a familiar manner, the water in the cockpit slushing against his legs. i did not like his looks. i felt that beneath the pleasant smile he was trying to put on his face there was an ill purpose. i ordered him back, and so sharply that he obeyed. "now keep your distance," i commanded, "and don't you come closer!" "wha' fo'?" he demanded indignantly. "i t'ink-um talkee talkee heap good." "talkee talkee," i answered bitterly, for i knew now that he had understood all that passed between george and me. "what for talkee talkee? you no sabbe talkee talkee." he grinned in a sickly fashion. "yep, i sabbe velly much. i honest chinaman." "all right," i answered. "you sabbe talkee talkee, then you bail water plenty plenty. after that we talkee talkee." he shook his head, at the same time pointing over his shoulder to his comrades. "no can do. velly bad chinamen, heap velly bad. i t'ink-um--" "stand back!" i shouted, for i had noticed his hand disappear beneath his blouse and his body prepare for a spring. disconcerted, he went back into the cabin, to hold a council, apparently, from the way the jabbering broke forth. the _reindeer_ was very deep in the water, and her movements had grown quite loggy. in a rough sea she would have inevitably swamped; but the wind, when it did blow, was off the land, and scarcely a ripple disturbed the surface of the bay. "i think you'd better head for the beach," george said abruptly, in a manner that told me his fear had forced him to make up his mind to some course of action. "i think not," i answered shortly. "i command you," he said in a bullying tone. "i was commanded to bring these prisoners into san rafael," was my reply. our voices were raised, and the sound of the altercation brought the chinese out of the cabin. "now will you head for the beach?" this from george, and i found myself looking into the muzzle of his revolver--of the revolver he dared to use on me, but was too cowardly to use on the prisoners. my brain seemed smitten with a dazzling brightness. the whole situation, in all its bearings, was focussed sharply before me--the shame of losing the prisoners, the worthlessness and cowardice of george, the meeting with le grant and the other patrol-men and the lame explanation; and then there was the fight i had fought so hard, victory wrenched from me just as i thought i had it within my grasp. and out of the tail of my eye i could see the chinese crowding together by the cabin doors and leering triumphantly. it would never do. i threw my hand up and my head down. the first act elevated the muzzle, and the second removed my head from the path of the bullet which went whistling past. one hand closed on george's wrist, the other on the revolver. yellow handkerchief and his gang sprang toward me. it was now or never. putting all my strength into a sudden effort, i swung george's body forward to meet them. then i pulled back with equal suddenness, ripping the revolver out of his fingers and jerking him off his feet. he fell against yellow handkerchief's knees, who stumbled over him, and the pair wallowed in the bailing hole where the cockpit floor was torn open. the next instant i was covering them with my revolver, and the wild shrimp-catchers were cowering and cringing away. but i swiftly discovered that there was all the difference in the world between shooting men who are attacking and men who are doing nothing more than simply refusing to obey. for obey they would not when i ordered them into the bailing hole. i threatened them with the revolver, but they sat stolidly in the flooded cabin and on the roof and would not move. fifteen minutes passed, the _reindeer_ sinking deeper and deeper, her mainsail flapping in the calm. but from off the point pedro shore i saw a dark line form on the water and travel toward us. it was the steady breeze i had been expecting so long. i called to the chinese and pointed it out. they hailed it with exclamations. then i pointed to the sail and to the water in the _reindeer_, and indicated by signs that when the wind reached the sail, what of the water aboard we would capsize. but they jeered defiantly, for they knew it was in my power to luff the helm and let go the main-sheet, so as to spill the wind and escape damage. but my mind was made up. i hauled in the main-sheet a foot or two, took a turn with it, and bracing my feet, put my back against the tiller. this left me one hand for the sheet and one for the revolver. the dark line drew nearer, and i could see them looking from me to it and back again with an apprehension they could not successfully conceal. my brain and will and endurance were pitted against theirs, and the problem was which could stand the strain of imminent death the longer and not give in. then the wind struck us. the mainsheet tautened with a brisk rattling of the blocks, the boom uplifted, the sail bellied out, and the _reindeer_ heeled over--over, and over, till the lee-rail went under, the deck went under, the cabin windows went under, and the bay began to pour in over the cockpit rail. so violently had she heeled over, that the men in the cabin had been thrown on top of one another into the lee bunk, where they squirmed and twisted and were washed about, those underneath being perilously near to drowning. the wind freshened a bit, and the _reindeer_ went over farther than ever. for the moment i thought she was gone, and i knew that another puff like that and she surely would go. while i pressed her under and debated whether i should give up or not, the chinese cried for mercy. i think it was the sweetest sound i have ever heard. and then, and not until then, did i luff up and ease out the main-sheet. the _reindeer_ righted very slowly, and when she was on an even keel was so much awash that i doubted if she could be saved. but the chinese scrambled madly into the cockpit and fell to bailing with buckets, pots, pans, and everything they could lay hands on. it was a beautiful sight to see that water flying over the side! and when the _reindeer_ was high and proud on the water once more, we dashed away with the breeze on our quarter, and at the last possible moment crossed the mud flats and entered the slough. the spirit of the chinese was broken, and so docile did they become that ere we made san rafael they were out with the tow-rope, yellow handkerchief at the head of the line. as for george, it was his last trip with the fish patrol. he did not care for that sort of thing, he explained, and he thought a clerkship ashore was good enough for him. and we thought so, too. ii the king of the greeks big alec had never been captured by the fish patrol. it was his boast that no man could take him alive, and it was his history that of the many men who had tried to take him dead none had succeeded. it was also history that at least two patrolmen who had tried to take him dead had died themselves. further, no man violated the fish laws more systematically and deliberately than big alec. he was called "big alec" because of his gigantic stature. his height was six feet three inches, and he was correspondingly broad-shouldered and deep-chested. he was splendidly muscled and hard as steel, and there were innumerable stories in circulation among the fisher-folk concerning his prodigious strength. he was as bold and dominant of spirit as he was strong of body, and because of this he was widely known by another name, that of "the king of the greeks." the fishing population was largely composed of greeks, and they looked up to him and obeyed him as their chief. and as their chief, he fought their fights for them, saw that they were protected, saved them from the law when they fell into its clutches, and made them stand by one another and himself in time of trouble. in the old days, the fish patrol had attempted his capture many disastrous times and had finally given it over, so that when the word was out that he was coming to benicia, i was most anxious to see him. but i did not have to hunt him up. in his usual bold way, the first thing he did on arriving was to hunt us up. charley le grant and i at the time were under a patrolman named carmintel, and the three of us were on the _reindeer_, preparing for a trip, when big alec stepped aboard. carmintel evidently knew him, for they shook hands in recognition. big alec took no notice of charley or me. "i've come down to fish sturgeon a couple of months," he said to carmintel. his eyes flashed with challenge as he spoke, and we noticed the patrolman's eyes drop before him. "that's all right, alec," carmintel said in a low voice. "i'll not bother you. come on into the cabin, and we'll talk things over," he added. when they had gone inside and shut the doors after them, charley winked with slow deliberation at me. but i was only a youngster, and new to men and the ways of some men, so i did not understand. nor did charley explain, though i felt there was something wrong about the business. leaving them to their conference, at charley's suggestion we boarded our skiff and pulled over to the old steamboat wharf, where big alec's ark was lying. an ark is a house-boat of small though comfortable dimensions, and is as necessary to the upper bay fisherman as are nets and boats. we were both curious to see big alec's ark, for history said that it had been the scene of more than one pitched battle, and that it was riddled with bullet-holes. we found the holes (stopped with wooden plugs and painted over), but there were not so many as i had expected. charley noted my look of disappointment, and laughed; and then to comfort me he gave an authentic account of one expedition which had descended upon big alec's floating home to capture him, alive preferably, dead if necessary. at the end of half a day's fighting, the patrolmen had drawn off in wrecked boats, with one of their number killed and three wounded. and when they returned next morning with reã«nforcements they found only the mooring-stakes of big alec's ark; the ark itself remained hidden for months in the fastnesses of the suisun tules. "but why was he not hanged for murder?" i demanded. "surely the united states is powerful enough to bring such a man to justice." "he gave himself up and stood trial," charley answered. "it cost him fifty thousand dollars to win the case, which he did on technicalities and with the aid of the best lawyers in the state. every greek fisherman on the river contributed to the sum. big alec levied and collected the tax, for all the world like a king. the united states may be all-powerful, my lad, but the fact remains that big alec is a king inside the united states, with a country and subjects all his own." "but what are you going to do about his fishing for sturgeon? he's bound to fish with a 'chinese line.'" charley shrugged his shoulders. "we'll see what we will see," he said enigmatically. now a "chinese line" is a cunning device invented by the people whose name it bears. by a simple system of floats, weights, and anchors, thousands of hooks, each on a separate leader, are suspended at a distance of from six inches to a foot above the bottom. the remarkable thing about such a line is the hook. it is barbless, and in place of the barb, the hook is filed long and tapering to a point as sharp as that of a needle. these hooks are only a few inches apart, and when several thousand of them are suspended just above the bottom, like a fringe, for a couple of hundred fathoms, they present a formidable obstacle to the fish that travel along the bottom. such a fish is the sturgeon, which goes rooting along like a pig, and indeed is often called "pig-fish." pricked by the first hook it touches, the sturgeon gives a startled leap and comes into contact with half a dozen more hooks. then it threshes about wildly, until it receives hook after hook in its soft flesh; and the hooks, straining from many different angles, hold the luckless fish fast until it is drowned. because no sturgeon can pass through a chinese line, the device is called a trap in the fish laws; and because it bids fair to exterminate the sturgeon, it is branded by the fish laws as illegal. and such a line, we were confident, big alec intended setting, in open and flagrant violation of the law. several days passed after the visit of big alec, during which charley and i kept a sharp watch on him. he towed his ark around the solano wharf and into the big bight at turner's shipyard. the bight we knew to be good ground for sturgeon, and there we felt sure the king of the greeks intended to begin operations. the tide circled like a mill-race in and out of this bight, and made it possible to raise, lower, or set a chinese line only at slack water. so between the tides charley and i made it a point for one or the other of us to keep a lookout from the solano wharf. on the fourth day i was lying in the sun behind the stringer-piece of the wharf, when i saw a skiff leave the distant shore and pull out into the bight. in an instant the glasses were at my eyes and i was following every movement of the skiff. there were two men in it, and though it was a good mile away, i made out one of them to be big alec; and ere the skiff returned to shore i made out enough more to know that the greek had set his line. "big alec has a chinese line out in the bight off turner's shipyard," charley le grant said that afternoon to carmintel. a fleeting expression of annoyance passed over the patrolman's face, and then he said, "yes?" in an absent way, and that was all. charley bit his lip with suppressed anger and turned on his heel. "are you game, my lad?" he said to me later on in the evening, just as we finished washing down the _reindeer's_ decks and were preparing to turn in. a lump came up in my throat, and i could only nod my head. "well, then," and charley's eyes glittered in a determined way, "we've got to capture big alec between us, you and i, and we've got to do it in spite of carmintel. will you lend a hand?" "it's a hard proposition, but we can do it," he added after a pause. "of course we can," i supplemented enthusiastically. and then he said, "of course we can," and we shook hands on it and went to bed. but it was no easy task we had set ourselves. in order to convict a man of illegal fishing, it was necessary to catch him in the act with all the evidence of the crime about him--the hooks, the lines, the fish, and the man himself. this meant that we must take big alec on the open water, where he could see us coming and prepare for us one of the warm receptions for which he was noted. "there's no getting around it," charley said one morning. "if we can only get alongside it's an even toss, and there's nothing left for us but to try and get alongside. come on, lad." we were in the columbia river salmon boat, the one we had used against the chinese shrimp-catchers. slack water had come, and as we dropped around the end of the solano wharf we saw big alec at work, running his line and removing the fish. "change places," charley commanded, "and steer just astern of him as though you're going into the shipyard." i took the tiller, and charley sat down on a thwart amidships, placing his revolver handily beside him. "if he begins to shoot," he cautioned, "get down in the bottom and steer from there, so that nothing more than your hand will be exposed." i nodded, and we kept silent after that, the boat slipping gently through the water and big alec growing nearer and nearer. we could see him quite plainly, gaffing the sturgeon and throwing them into the boat while his companion ran the line and cleared the hooks as he dropped them back into the water. nevertheless, we were five hundred yards away when the big fisherman hailed us. "here! you! what do you want?" he shouted. "keep going," charley whispered, "just as though you didn't hear him." the next few moments were very anxious ones. the fisherman was studying us sharply, while we were gliding up on him every second. "you keep off if you know what's good for you!" he called out suddenly, as though he had made up his mind as to who and what we were. "if you don't, i'll fix you!" he brought a rifle to his shoulder and trained it on me. "now will you keep off?" he demanded. i could hear charley groan with disappointment. "keep off," he whispered; "it's all up for this time." i put up the tiller and eased the sheet, and the salmon boat ran off five or six points. big alec watched us till we were out of range, when he returned to his work. "you'd better leave big alec alone," carmintel said, rather sourly, to charley that night. "so he's been complaining to you, has he?" charley said significantly. carmintel flushed painfully. "you'd better leave him alone, i tell you," he repeated. "he's a dangerous man, and it won't pay to fool with him." "yes," charley answered softly; "i've heard that it pays better to leave him alone." this was a direct thrust at carmintel, and we could see by the expression of his face that it sank home. for it was common knowledge that big alec was as willing to bribe as to fight, and that of late years more than one patrolman had handled the fisherman's money. "do you mean to say--" carmintel began, in a bullying tone. but charley cut him off shortly. "i mean to say nothing," he said. "you heard what i said, and if the cap fits, why--" he shrugged his shoulders, and carmintel glowered at him, speechless. "what we want is imagination," charley said to me one day, when we had attempted to creep upon big alec in the gray of dawn and had been shot at for our trouble. and thereafter, and for many days, i cudgelled my brains trying to imagine some possible way by which two men, on an open stretch of water, could capture another who knew how to use a rifle and was never to be found without one. regularly, every slack water, without slyness, boldly and openly in the broad day, big alec was to be seen running his line. and what made it particularly exasperating was the fact that every fisherman, from benicia to vallejo, knew that he was successfully defying us. carmintel also bothered us, for he kept us busy among the shad-fishers of san pablo, so that we had little time to spare on the king of the greeks. but charley's wife and children lived at benicia, and we had made the place our headquarters, so that we always returned to it. "i'll tell you what we can do," i said, after several fruitless weeks had passed; "we can wait some slack water till big alec has run his line and gone ashore with the fish, and then we can go out and capture the line. it will put him to time and expense to make another, and then we'll figure to capture that too. if we can't capture him, we can discourage him, you see." charley saw, and said it wasn't a bad idea. we watched our chance, and the next low-water slack, after big alec had removed the fish from the line and returned ashore, we went out in the salmon boat. we had the bearings of the line from shore marks, and we knew we would have no difficulty in locating it. the first of the flood tide was setting in, when we ran below where we thought the line was stretched and dropped over a fishing-boat anchor. keeping a short rope to the anchor, so that it barely touched the bottom, we dragged it slowly along until it stuck and the boat fetched up hard and fast. "we've got it," charley cried. "come on and lend a hand to get it in." together we hove up the rope till the anchor came in sight with the sturgeon line caught across one of the flukes. scores of the murderous-looking hooks flashed into sight as we cleared the anchor, and we had just started to run along the line to the end where we could begin to lift it, when a sharp thud in the boat startled us. we looked about, but saw nothing and returned to our work. an instant later there was a similar sharp thud and the gunwale splintered between charley's body and mine. "that's remarkably like a bullet, lad," he said reflectively. "and it's a long shot big alec's making." "and he's using smokeless powder," he concluded, after an examination of the mile-distant shore. "that's why we can't hear the report." i looked at the shore, but could see no sign of big alec, who was undoubtedly hidden in some rocky nook with us at his mercy. a third bullet struck the water, glanced, passed singing over our heads, and struck the water again beyond. "i guess we'd better get out of this," charley remarked coolly. "what do you think, lad?" i thought so, too, and said we didn't want the line anyway. whereupon we cast off and hoisted the spritsail. the bullets ceased at once, and we sailed away, unpleasantly confident that big alec was laughing at our discomfiture. and more than that, the next day on the fishing wharf, where we were inspecting nets, he saw fit to laugh and sneer at us, and this before all the fishermen. charley's face went black with anger; but beyond promising big alec that in the end he would surely land him behind the bars, he controlled himself and said nothing. the king of the greeks made his boast that no fish patrol had ever taken him or ever could take him, and the fishermen cheered him and said it was true. they grew excited, and it looked like trouble for a while; but big alec asserted his kingship and quelled them. carmintel also laughed at charley, and dropped sarcastic remarks, and made it hard for him. but charley refused to be angered, though he told me in confidence that he intended to capture big alec if it took all the rest of his life to accomplish it. "i don't know how i'll do it," he said, "but do it i will, as sure as i am charley le grant. the idea will come to me at the right and proper time, never fear." and at the right time it came, and most unexpectedly. fully a month had passed, and we were constantly up and down the river, and down and up the bay, with no spare moments to devote to the particular fisherman who ran a chinese line in the bight of turner's shipyard. we had called in at selby's smelter one afternoon, while on patrol work, when all unknown to us our opportunity happened along. it appeared in the guise of a helpless yacht loaded with seasick people, so we could hardly be expected to recognize it as the opportunity. it was a large sloop-yacht, and it was helpless inasmuch as the trade-wind was blowing half a gale and there were no capable sailors aboard. [illustration: "he saw fit to laugh sneer at us, before all the fishermen."] from the wharf at selby's we watched with careless interest the lubberly manoeuvre performed of bringing the yacht to anchor, and the equally lubberly manoeuvre of sending the small boat ashore. a very miserable-looking man in draggled ducks, after nearly swamping the boat in the heavy seas, passed us the painter and climbed out. he staggered about as though the wharf were rolling, and told us his troubles, which were the troubles of the yacht. the only rough-weather sailor aboard, the man on whom they all depended, had been called back to san francisco by a telegram, and they had attempted to continue the cruise alone. the high wind and big seas of san pablo bay had been too much for them; all hands were sick, nobody knew anything or could do anything; and so they had run in to the smelter either to desert the yacht or to get somebody to bring it to benicia. in short, did we know of any sailors who would bring the yacht into benicia? charley looked at me. the _reindeer_ was lying in a snug place. we had nothing on hand in the way of patrol work till midnight. with the wind then blowing, we could sail the yacht into benicia in a couple of hours, have several more hours ashore, and come back to the smelter on the evening train. "all right, captain," charley said to the disconsolate yachtsman, who smiled in sickly fashion at the title. "i'm only the owner," he explained. we rowed him aboard in much better style than he had come ashore, and saw for ourselves the helplessness of the passengers. there were a dozen men and women, and all of them too sick even to appear grateful at our coming. the yacht was rolling savagely, broad on, and no sooner had the owner's feet touched the deck than he collapsed and joined the others. not one was able to bear a hand, so charley and i between us cleared the badly tangled running gear, got up sail, and hoisted anchor. it was a rough trip, though a swift one. the carquinez straits were a welter of foam and smother, and we came through them wildly before the wind, the big mainsail alternately dipping and flinging its boom skyward as we tore along. but the people did not mind. they did not mind anything. two or three, including the owner, sprawled in the cockpit, shuddering when the yacht lifted and raced and sank dizzily into the trough, and between-whiles regarding the shore with yearning eyes. the rest were huddled on the cabin floor among the cushions. now and again some one groaned, but for the most part they were as limp as so many dead persons. as the bight at turner's shipyard opened out, charley edged into it to get the smoother water. benicia was in view, and we were bowling along over comparatively easy water, when a speck of a boat danced up ahead of us, directly in our course. it was low-water slack. charley and i looked at each other. no word was spoken, but at once the yacht began a most astonishing performance, veering and yawing as though the greenest of amateurs was at the wheel. it was a sight for sailormen to see. to all appearances, a runaway yacht was careering madly over the bight, and now and again yielding a little bit to control in a desperate effort to make benicia. the owner forgot his seasickness long enough to look anxious. the speck of a boat grew larger and larger, till we could see big alec and his partner, with a turn of the sturgeon line around a cleat, resting from their labor to laugh at us. charley pulled his sou'wester over his eyes, and i followed his example, though i could not guess the idea he evidently had in mind and intended to carry into execution. we came foaming down abreast of the skiff, so close that we could hear above the wind the voices of big alec and his mate as they shouted at us with all the scorn that professional watermen feel for amateurs, especially when amateurs are making fools of themselves. we thundered on past the fishermen, and nothing had happened. charley grinned at the disappointment he saw in my face, and then shouted: "stand by the main-sheet to jibe!" he put the wheel hard over, and the yacht whirled around obediently. the main-sheet slacked and dipped, then shot over our heads after the boom and tautened with a crash on the traveller. the yacht heeled over almost on her beam ends, and a great wail went up from the seasick passengers as they swept across the cabin floor in a tangled mass and piled into a heap in the starboard bunks. but we had no time for them. the yacht, completing the manoeuvre, headed into the wind with slatting canvas, and righted to an even keel. we were still plunging ahead, and directly in our path was the skiff. i saw big alec dive over-board and his mate leap for our bowsprit. then came the crash as we struck the boat, and a series of grinding bumps as it passed under our bottom. "that fixes his rifle," i heard charley mutter, as he sprang upon the deck to look for big alec somewhere astern. the wind and sea quickly stopped our forward movement, and we began to drift backward over the spot where the skiff had been. big alec's black head and swarthy face popped up within arm's reach; and all unsuspecting and very angry with what he took to be the clumsiness of amateur sailors, he was hauled aboard. also he was out of breath, for he had dived deep and stayed down long to escape our keel. the next instant, to the perplexity and consternation of the owner, charley was on top of big alec in the cockpit, and i was helping bind him with gaskets. the owner was dancing excitedly about and demanding an explanation, but by that time big alec's partner had crawled aft from the bowsprit and was peering apprehensively over the rail into the cockpit. charley's arm shot around his neck and the man landed on his back beside big alec. "more gaskets!" charley shouted, and i made haste to supply them. the wrecked skiff was rolling sluggishly a short distance to windward, and i trimmed the sheets while charley took the wheel and steered for it. "these two men are old offenders," he explained to the angry owner; "and they are most persistent violators of the fish and game laws. you have seen them caught in the act, and you may expect to be subpoenaed as witness for the state when the trial comes off." as he spoke he rounded alongside the skiff. it had been torn from the line, a section of which was dragging to it. he hauled in forty or fifty feet with a young sturgeon still fast in a tangle of barbless hooks, slashed that much of the line free with his knife, and tossed it into the cockpit beside the prisoners. "and there's the evidence, exhibit a, for the people," charley continued. "look it over carefully so that you may identify it in the court-room with the time and place of capture." and then, in triumph, with no more veering and yawing, we sailed into benicia, the king of the greeks bound hard and fast in the cockpit, and for the first time in his life a prisoner of the fish patrol. iii a raid on the oyster pirates of the fish patrolmen under whom we served at various times, charley le grant and i were agreed, i think, that neil partington was the best. he was neither dishonest nor cowardly; and while he demanded strict obedience when we were under his orders, at the same time our relations were those of easy comradeship, and he permitted us a freedom to which we were ordinarily unaccustomed, as the present story will show. neil's family lived in oakland, which is on the lower bay, not more than six miles across the water from san francisco. one day, while scouting among the chinese shrimp-catchers of point pedro, he received word that his wife was very ill; and within the hour the _reindeer_ was bowling along for oakland, with a stiff northwest breeze astern. we ran up the oakland estuary and came to anchor, and in the days that followed, while neil was ashore, we tightened up the _reindeer's_ rigging, overhauled the ballast, scraped down, and put the sloop into thorough shape. this done, time hung heavy on our hands. neil's wife was dangerously ill, and the outlook was a week's lie-over, awaiting the crisis. charley and i roamed the docks, wondering what we should do, and so came upon the oyster fleet lying at the oakland city wharf. in the main they were trim, natty boats, made for speed and bad weather, and we sat down on the stringer-piece of the dock to study them. "a good catch, i guess," charley said, pointing to the heaps of oysters, assorted in three sizes, which lay upon their decks. pedlers were backing their wagons to the edge of the wharf, and from the bargaining and chaffering that went on, i managed to learn the selling price of the oysters. "that boat must have at least two hundred dollars' worth aboard," i calculated. "i wonder how long it took to get the load?" "three or four days," charley answered. "not bad wages for two men--twenty-five dollars a day apiece." the boat we were discussing, the _ghost_, lay directly beneath us. two men composed its crew. one was a squat, broad-shouldered fellow with remarkably long and gorilla-like arms, while the other was tall and well proportioned, with clear blue eyes and a mat of straight black hair. so unusual and striking was this combination of hair and eyes that charley and i remained somewhat longer than we intended. and it was well that we did. a stout, elderly man, with the dress and carriage of a successful merchant, came up and stood beside us, looking down upon the deck of the _ghost_. he appeared angry, and the longer he looked the angrier he grew. "those are my oysters," he said at last. "i know they are my oysters. you raided my beds last night and robbed me of them." the tall man and the short man on the _ghost_ looked up. "hello, taft," the short man said, with insolent familiarity. (among the bayfarers he had gained the nickname of "the centipede" on account of his long arms.) "hello, taft," he repeated, with the same touch of insolence. "wot 'r you growlin' about now?" "those are my oysters--that's what i said. you've stolen them from my beds." "yer mighty wise, ain't ye?" was the centipede's sneering reply. "s'pose you can tell your oysters wherever you see 'em?" "now, in my experience," broke in the tall man, "oysters is oysters wherever you find 'em, an' they're pretty much alike all the bay over, and the world over, too, for that matter. we're not wantin' to quarrel with you, mr. taft, but we jes' wish you wouldn't insinuate that them oysters is yours an' that we're thieves an' robbers till you can prove the goods." "i know they're mine; i'd stake my life on it!" mr. taft snorted. "prove it," challenged the tall man, who we afterward learned was known as "the porpoise" because of his wonderful swimming abilities. mr. taft shrugged his shoulders helplessly. of course he could not prove the oysters to be his, no matter how certain he might be. "i'd give a thousand dollars to have you men behind the bars!" he cried. "i'll give fifty dollars a head for your arrest and conviction, all of you!" a roar of laughter went up from the different boats, for the rest of the pirates had been listening to the discussion. "there's more money in oysters," the porpoise remarked dryly. mr. taft turned impatiently on his heel and walked away. from out of the corner of his eye, charley noted the way he went. several minutes later, when he had disappeared around a corner, charley rose lazily to his feet. i followed him, and we sauntered off in the opposite direction to that taken by mr. taft. "come on! lively!" charley whispered, when we passed from the view of the oyster fleet. our course was changed at once, and we dodged around corners and raced up and down side-streets till mr. taft's generous form loomed up ahead of us. "i'm going to interview him about that reward," charley explained, as we rapidly overhauled the oyster-bed owner. "neil will be delayed here for a week, and you and i might as well be doing something in the meantime. what do you say?" "of course, of course," mr. taft said, when charley had introduced himself and explained his errand. "those thieves are robbing me of thousands of dollars every year, and i shall be glad to break them up at any price,--yes, sir, at any price. as i said, i'll give fifty dollars a head, and call it cheap at that. they've robbed my beds, torn down my signs, terrorized my watchmen, and last year killed one of them. couldn't prove it. all done in the blackness of night. all i had was a dead watchman and no evidence. the detectives could do nothing. nobody has been able to do anything with those men. we have never succeeded in arresting one of them. so i say, mr.---what did you say your name was?" "le grant," charley answered. "so i say, mr. le grant, i am deeply obliged to you for the assistance you offer. and i shall be glad, most glad, sir, to co-operate with you in every way. my watchmen and boats are at your disposal. come and see me at the san francisco offices any time, or telephone at my expense. and don't be afraid of spending money. i'll foot your expenses, whatever they are, so long as they are within reason. the situation is growing desperate, and something must be done to determine whether i or that band of ruffians own those oyster beds." "now we'll see neil," charley said, when he had seen mr. taft upon his train to san francisco. not only did neil partington interpose no obstacle to our adventure, but he proved to be of the greatest assistance. charley and i knew nothing of the oyster industry, while his head was an encyclopã¦dia of facts concerning it. also, within an hour or so, he was able to bring to us a greek boy of seventeen or eighteen who knew thoroughly well the ins and outs of oyster piracy. at this point i may as well explain that we of the fish patrol were free lances in a way. while neil partington, who was a patrolman proper, received a regular salary, charley and i, being merely deputies, received only what we earned--that is to say, a certain percentage of the fines imposed on convicted violators of the fish laws. also, any rewards that chanced our way were ours. we offered to share with partington whatever we should get from mr. taft, but the patrolman would not hear of it. he was only too happy, he said, to do a good turn for us, who had done so many for him. we held a long council of war, and mapped out the following line of action. our faces were unfamiliar on the lower bay, but as the _reindeer_ was well known as a fish-patrol sloop, the greek boy, whose name was nicholas, and i were to sail some innocent-looking craft down to asparagus island and join the oyster pirates' fleet. here, according to nicholas's description of the beds and the manner of raiding, it was possible for us to catch the pirates in the act of stealing oysters, and at the same time to get them in our power. charley was to be on the shore, with mr. taft's watchmen and a posse of constables, to help us at the right time. "i know just the boat," neil said, at the conclusion of the discussion, "a crazy old sloop that's lying over at tiburon. you and nicholas can go over by the ferry, charter it for a song, and sail direct for the beds." "good luck be with you, boys," he said at parting, two days later. "remember, they are dangerous men, so be careful." nicholas and i succeeded in chartering the sloop very cheaply; and between laughs, while getting up sail, we agreed that she was even crazier and older than she had been described. she was a big, flat-bottomed, square-sterned craft, sloop-rigged, with a sprung mast, slack rigging, dilapidated sails, and rotten running-gear, clumsy to handle and uncertain in bringing about, and she smelled vilely of coal tar, with which strange stuff she had been smeared from stem to stern and from cabin-roof to centreboard. and to cap it all, _coal tar maggie_ was printed in great white letters the whole length of either side. it was an uneventful though laughable run from tiburon to asparagus island, where we arrived in the afternoon of the following day. the oyster pirates, a fleet of a dozen sloops, were lying at anchor on what was known as the "deserted beds." the _coal tar maggie_ came sloshing into their midst with a light breeze astern, and they crowded on deck to see us. nicholas and i had caught the spirit of the crazy craft, and we handled her in most lubberly fashion. "wot is it?" some one called. "name it 'n' ye kin have it!" called another. "i swan naow, ef it ain't the old ark itself!" mimicked the centipede from the deck of the _ghost_. "hey! ahoy there, clipper ship!" another wag shouted. "wot's yer port?" we took no notice of the joking, but acted, after the manner of greenhorns, as though the _coal tar maggie_ required our undivided attention. i rounded her well to windward of the _ghost_, and nicholas ran for'ard to drop the anchor. to all appearances it was a bungle, the way the chain tangled and kept the anchor from reaching the bottom. and to all appearances nicholas and i were terribly excited as we strove to clear it. at any rate, we quite deceived the pirates, who took huge delight in our predicament. [illustration: "the centipede and the porpoise doubled up on the cabin in paroxysms of laughter."] but the chain remained tangled, and amid all kinds of mocking advice we drifted down upon and fouled the _ghost_, whose bowsprit poked square through our mainsail and ripped a hole in it as big as a barn door. the centipede and the porpoise doubled up on the cabin in paroxysms of laughter, and left us to get clear as best we could. this, with much unseamanlike performance, we succeeded in doing, and likewise in clearing the anchor-chain, of which we let out about three hundred feet. with only ten feet of water under us, this would permit the _coal tar maggie_ to swing in a circle six hundred feet in diameter, in which circle she would be able to foul at least half the fleet. the oyster pirates lay snugly together at short hawsers, the weather being fine, and they protested loudly at our ignorance in putting out such an unwarranted length of anchor-chain. and not only did they protest, for they made us heave it in again, all but thirty feet. having sufficiently impressed them with our general lubberliness, nicholas and i went below to congratulate ourselves and to cook supper. hardly had we finished the meal and washed the dishes, when a skiff ground against the _coal tar maggie's_ side, and heavy feet trampled on deck. then the centipede's brutal face appeared in the companionway, and he descended into the cabin, followed by the porpoise. before they could seat themselves on a bunk, another skiff came alongside, and another, and another, till the whole fleet was represented by the gathering in the cabin. "where'd you swipe the old tub?" asked a squat and hairy man, with cruel eyes and mexican features. "didn't swipe it," nicholas answered, meeting them on their own ground and encouraging the idea that we had stolen the _coal tar maggie_. "and if we did, what of it?" "well, i don't admire your taste, that's all," sneered he of the mexican features. "i'd rot on the beach first before i'd take a tub that couldn't get out of its own way." "how were we to know till we tried her?" nicholas asked, so innocently as to cause a laugh. "and how do you get the oysters?" he hurried on. "we want a load of them; that's what we came for, a load of oysters." "what d'ye want 'em for?" demanded the porpoise. "oh, to give away to our friends, of course," nicholas retorted. "that's what you do with yours, i suppose." this started another laugh, and as our visitors grew more genial we could see that they had not the slightest suspicion of our identity or purpose. "didn't i see you on the dock in oakland the other day?" the centipede asked suddenly of me. "yep," i answered boldly, taking the bull by the horns. "i was watching you fellows and figuring out whether we'd go oystering or not. it's a pretty good business, i calculate, and so we're going in for it. that is," i hastened to add, "if you fellows don't mind." "i'll tell you one thing, which ain't two things," he replied, "and that is you'll have to hump yerself an' get a better boat. we won't stand to be disgraced by any such box as this. understand?" "sure," i said. "soon as we sell some oysters we'll outfit in style." "and if you show yerself square an' the right sort," he went on, "why, you kin run with us. but if you don't" (here his voice became stern and menacing), "why, it'll be the sickest day of yer life. understand?" "sure," i said. after that and more warning and advice of similar nature, the conversation became general, and we learned that the beds were to be raided that very night. as they got into their boats, after an hour's stay, we were invited to join them in the raid with the assurance of "the more the merrier." "did you notice that short, mexican-looking chap?" nicholas asked, when they had departed to their various sloops. "he's barchi, of the sporting life gang, and the fellow that came with him is skilling. they're both out now on five thousand dollars' bail." i had heard of the sporting life gang before, a crowd of hoodlums and criminals that terrorized the lower quarters of oakland, and two-thirds of which were usually to be found in state's prison for crimes that ranged from perjury and ballot-box stuffing to murder. "they are not regular oyster pirates," nicholas continued. "they've just come down for the lark and to make a few dollars. but we'll have to watch out for them." we sat in the cockpit and discussed the details of our plan till eleven o'clock had passed, when we heard the rattle of an oar in a boat from the direction of the _ghost_. we hauled up our own skiff, tossed in a few sacks, and rowed over. there we found all the skiffs assembling, it being the intention to raid the beds in a body. to my surprise, i found barely a foot of water where we had dropped anchor in ten feet. it was the big june run-out of the full moon, and as the ebb had yet an hour and a half to run, i knew that our anchorage would be dry ground before slack water. mr. taft's beds were three miles away, and for a long time we rowed silently in the wake of the other boats, once in a while grounding and our oar blades constantly striking bottom. at last we came upon soft mud covered with not more than two inches of water--not enough to float the boats. but the pirates at once were over the side, and by pushing and pulling on the flat-bottomed skiffs, we moved steadily along. the full moon was partly obscured by high-flying clouds, but the pirates went their way with the familiarity born of long practice. after half a mile of the mud, we came upon a deep channel, up which we rowed, with dead oyster shoals looming high and dry on either side. at last we reached the picking grounds. two men, on one of the shoals, hailed us and warned us off. but the centipede, the porpoise, barchi, and skilling took the lead, and followed by the rest of us, at least thirty men in half as many boats, rowed right up to the watchmen. "you'd better slide outa this here," barchi said threateningly, "or we'll fill you so full of holes you wouldn't float in molasses." the watchmen wisely retreated before so overwhelming a force, and rowed their boat along the channel toward where the shore should be. besides, it was in the plan for them to retreat. we hauled the noses of the boats up on the shore side of a big shoal, and all hands, with sacks, spread out and began picking. every now and again the clouds thinned before the face of the moon, and we could see the big oysters quite distinctly. in almost no time sacks were filled and carried back to the boats, where fresh ones were obtained. nicholas and i returned often and anxiously to the boats with our little loads, but always found some one of the pirates coming or going. "never mind," he said; "no hurry. as they pick farther and farther away, it will take too long to carry to the boats. then they'll stand the full sacks on end and pick them up when the tide comes in and the skiffs will float to them." fully half an hour went by, and the tide had begun to flood, when this came to pass. leaving the pirates at their work, we stole back to the boats. one by one, and noiselessly, we shoved them off and made them fast in an awkward flotilla. just as we were shoving off the last skiff, our own, one of the men came upon us. it was barchi. his quick eye took in the situation at a glance, and he sprang for us; but we went clear with a mighty shove, and he was left floundering in the water over his head. as soon as he got back to the shoal he raised his voice and gave the alarm. we rowed with all our strength, but it was slow going with so many boats in tow. a pistol cracked from the shoal, a second, and a third; then a regular fusillade began. the bullets spat and spat all about us; but thick clouds had covered the moon, and in the dim darkness it was no more than random firing. it was only by chance that we could be hit. "wish we had a little steam launch," i panted. "i'd just as soon the moon stayed hidden," nicholas panted back. it was slow work, but every stroke carried us farther away from the shoal and nearer the shore, till at last the shooting died down, and when the moon did come out we were too far away to be in danger. not long afterward we answered a shoreward hail, and two whitehall boats, each pulled by three pairs of oars, darted up to us. charley's welcome face bent over to us, and he gripped us by the hands while he cried, "oh, you joys! you joys! both of you!" when the flotilla had been landed, nicholas and i and a watchman rowed out in one of the whitehalls, with charley in the stern-sheets. two other whitehalls followed us, and as the moon now shone brightly, we easily made out the oyster pirates on their lonely shoal. as we drew closer, they fired a rattling volley from their revolvers, and we promptly retreated beyond range. "lot of time," charley said. "the flood is setting in fast, and by the time it's up to their necks there won't be any fight left in them." so we lay on our oars and waited for the tide to do its work. this was the predicament of the pirates: because of the big run-out, the tide was now rushing back like a mill-race, and it was impossible for the strongest swimmer in the world to make against it the three miles to the sloops. between the pirates and the shore were we, precluding escape in that direction. on the other hand, the water was rising rapidly over the shoals, and it was only a question of a few hours when it would be over their heads. it was beautifully calm, and in the brilliant white moonlight we watched them through our night glasses and told charley of the voyage of the _coal tar maggie_. one o'clock came, and two o'clock, and the pirates were clustering on the highest shoal, waist-deep in water. "now this illustrates the value of imagination," charley was saying. "taft has been trying for years to get them, but he went at it with bull strength and failed. now we used our heads...." just then i heard a scarcely audible gurgle of water, and holding up my hand for silence, i turned and pointed to a ripple slowly widening out in a growing circle. it was not more than fifty feet from us. we kept perfectly quiet and waited. after a minute the water broke six feet away, and a black head and white shoulder showed in the moonlight. with a snort of surprise and of suddenly expelled breath, the head and shoulder went down. we pulled ahead several strokes and drifted with the current. four pairs of eyes searched the surface of the water, but never another ripple showed, and never another glimpse did we catch of the black head and white shoulder. "it's the porpoise," nicholas said. "it would take broad daylight for us to catch him." at a quarter to three the pirates gave their first sign of weakening. we heard cries for help, in the unmistakable voice of the centipede, and this time, on rowing closer, we were not fired upon. the centipede was in a truly perilous plight. only the heads and shoulders of his fellow-marauders showed above the water as they braced themselves against the current, while his feet were off the bottom and they were supporting him. "now, lads," charley said briskly, "we have got you, and you can't get away. if you cut up rough, we'll have to leave you alone and the water will finish you. but if you're good, we'll take you aboard, one man at a time, and you'll all be saved. what do you say?" "ay," they chorused hoarsely between their chattering teeth. "then one man at a time, and the short men first." the centipede was the first to be pulled aboard, and he came willingly, though he objected when the constable put the handcuffs on him. barchi was next hauled in, quite meek and resigned from his soaking. when we had ten in our boat we drew back, and the second whitehall was loaded. the third whitehall received nine prisoners only--a catch of twenty-nine in all. "you didn't get the porpoise," the centipede said exultantly, as though his escape materially diminished our success. charley laughed. "but we saw him just the same, a-snorting for shore like a puffing pig." it was a mild and shivering band of pirates that we marched up the beach to the oyster house. in answer to charley's knock, the door was flung open, and a pleasant wave of warm air rushed out upon us. "you can dry your clothes here, lads, and get some hot coffee," charley announced, as they filed in. and there, sitting ruefully by the fire, with a steaming mug in his hand, was the porpoise. with one accord nicholas and i looked at charley. he laughed gleefully. "that comes of imagination," he said. "when you see a thing, you've got to see it all around, or what's the good of seeing it at all? i saw the beach, so i left a couple of constables behind to keep an eye on it. that's all." iv the siege of the "lancashire queen" possibly our most exasperating experience on the fish patrol was when charley le grant and i laid a two weeks' siege to a big four-masted english ship. before we had finished with the affair, it became a pretty mathematical problem, and it was by the merest chance that we came into possession of the instrument that brought it to a successful termination. after our raid on the oyster pirates we had returned to oakland, where two more weeks passed before neil partington's wife was out of danger and on the highroad to recovery. so it was after an absence of a month, all told, that we turned the _reindeer's_ nose toward benicia. when the cat's away the mice will play, and in these four weeks the fishermen had become very bold in violating the law. when we passed point pedro we noticed many signs of activity among the shrimp-catchers, and, well into san pablo bay, we observed a widely scattered fleet of upper bay fishing-boats hastily pulling in their nets and getting up sail. this was suspicious enough to warrant investigation, and the first and only boat we succeeded in boarding proved to have an illegal net. the law permitted no smaller mesh for catching shad than one that measured seven and one-half inches inside the knots, while the mesh of this particular net measured only three inches. it was a flagrant breach of the rules, and the two fishermen were forthwith put under arrest. neil partington took one of them with him to help manage the _reindeer_, while charley and i went on ahead with the other in the captured boat. but the shad fleet had headed over toward the petaluma shore in wild flight, and for the rest of the run through san pablo bay we saw no more fishermen at all. our prisoner, a bronzed and bearded greek, sat sullenly on his net while we sailed his craft. it was a new columbia river salmon boat, evidently on its first trip, and it handled splendidly. even when charley praised it, our prisoner refused to speak or to notice us, and we soon gave him up as a most unsociable fellow. we ran up the carquinez straits and edged into the bight at turner's shipyard for smoother water. here were lying several english steel sailing ships, waiting for the wheat harvest; and here, most unexpectedly, in the precise place where we had captured big alec, we came upon two italians in a skiff that was loaded with a complete "chinese" sturgeon line. the surprise was mutual, and we were on top of them before either they or we were aware. charley had barely time to luff into the wind and run up to them. i ran forward and tossed them a line with orders to make it fast. one of the italians took a turn with it over a cleat, while i hastened to lower our big spritsail. this accomplished, the salmon boat dropped astern, dragging heavily on the skiff. charley came forward to board the prize, but when i proceeded to haul alongside by means of the line, the italians cast it off. we at once began drifting to leeward, while they got out two pairs of oars and rowed their light craft directly into the wind. this manoeuvre for the moment disconcerted us, for in our large and heavily loaded boat we could not hope to catch them with the oars. but our prisoner came unexpectedly to our aid. his black eyes were flashing eagerly, and his face was flushed with suppressed excitement, as he dropped the centreboard, sprang forward with a single leap, and put up the sail. "i've always heard that greeks don't like italians," charley laughed, as he ran aft to the tiller. and never in my experience have i seen a man so anxious for the capture of another as was our prisoner in the chase that followed. his eyes fairly snapped, and his nostrils quivered and dilated in a most extraordinary way. charley steered while he tended the sheet; and though charley was as quick and alert as a cat, the greek could hardly control his impatience. the italians were cut off from the shore, which was fully a mile away at its nearest point. did they attempt to make it, we could haul after them with the wind abeam, and overtake them before they had covered an eighth of the distance. but they were too wise to attempt it, contenting themselves with rowing lustily to windward along the starboard side of a big ship, the _lancashire queen_. but beyond the ship lay an open stretch of fully two miles to the shore in that direction. this, also, they dared not attempt, for we were bound to catch them before they could cover it. so, when they reached the bow of the _lancashire queen_, nothing remained but to pass around and row down her port side toward the stern, which meant rowing to leeward and giving us the advantage. we in the salmon boat, sailing close on the wind, tacked about and crossed the ship's bow. then charley put up the tiller and headed down the port side of the ship, the greek letting out the sheet and grinning with delight. the italians were already half-way down the ship's length; but the stiff breeze at our back drove us after them far faster than they could row. closer and closer we came, and i, lying down forward, was just reaching out to grasp the skiff, when it ducked under the great stern of the _lancashire queen_. the chase was virtually where it had begun. the italians were rowing up the starboard side of the ship, and we were hauled close on the wind and slowly edging out from the ship as we worked to windward. then they darted around her bow and began the row down her port side, and we tacked about, crossed her bow, and went plunging down the wind hot after them. and again, just as i was reaching for the skiff, it ducked under the ship's stern and out of danger. and so it went, around and around, the skiff each time just barely ducking into safety. by this time the ship's crew had become aware of what was taking place, and we could see their heads in a long row as they looked at us over the bulwarks. each time we missed the skiff at the stern, they set up a wild cheer and dashed across to the other side of the _lancashire queen_ to see the chase to windward. they showered us and the italians with jokes and advice, and made our greek so angry that at least once on each circuit he raised his fist and shook it at them in a rage. they came to look for this, and at each display greeted it with uproarious mirth. "wot a circus!" cried one. "tork about yer marine hippodromes,--if this ain't one, i'd like to know!" affirmed another. "six-days-go-as-yer-please," announced a third. "who says the dagoes won't win?" on the next tack to windward the greek offered to change places with charley. "let-a me sail-a de boat," he demanded. "i fix-a them, i catch-a them, sure." this was a stroke at charley's professional pride, for pride himself he did upon his boat-sailing abilities; but he yielded the tiller to the prisoner and took his place at the sheet. three times again we made the circuit, and the greek found that he could get no more speed out of the salmon boat than charley had. "better give it up," one of the sailors advised from above. the greek scowled ferociously and shook his fist in his customary fashion. in the meanwhile my mind had not been idle, and i had finally evolved an idea. "keep going, charley, one time more," i said. and as we laid out on the next tack to windward, i bent a piece of line to a small grappling hook i had seen lying in the bail-hole. the end of the line i made fast to the ring-bolt in the bow, and with the hook out of sight i waited for the next opportunity to use it. once more they made their leeward pull down the port side of the _lancashire queen_, and more once we churned down after them before the wind. nearer and nearer we drew, and i was making believe to reach for them as before. the stern of the skiff was not six feet away, and they were laughing at me derisively as they ducked under the ship's stern. at that instant i suddenly arose and threw the grappling iron. it caught fairly and squarely on the rail of the skiff, which was jerked backward out of safety as the rope tautened and the salmon boat ploughed on. a groan went up from the row of sailors above, which quickly changed to a cheer as one of the italians whipped out a long sheath-knife and cut the rope. but we had drawn them out of safety, and charley, from his place in the stern-sheets, reached over and clutched the stern of the skiff. the whole thing happened in a second of time, for the first italian was cutting the rope and charley was clutching the skiff, when the second italian dealt him a rap over the head with an oar. charley released his hold and collapsed, stunned, into the bottom of the salmon boat, and the italians bent to their oars and escaped back under the ship's stern. the greek took both tiller and sheet and continued the chase around the _lancashire queen_, while i attended to charley, on whose head a nasty lump was rapidly rising. our sailor audience was wild with delight, and to a man encouraged the fleeing italians. charley sat up, with one hand on his head, and gazed about him sheepishly. "it will never do to let them escape now," he said, at the same time drawing his revolver. on our next circuit, he threatened the italians with the weapon; but they rowed on stolidly, keeping splendid stroke and utterly disregarding him. "if you don't stop, i'll shoot," charley said menacingly. [illustration: "i suddenly arose and threw the grappling iron."] but this had no effect, nor were they to be frightened into surrendering even when he fired several shots dangerously close to them. it was too much to expect him to shoot unarmed men, and this they knew as well as we did; so they continued to pull doggedly round and round the ship. "we'll run them down, then!" charley exclaimed. "we'll wear them out and wind them!" so the chase continued. twenty times more we ran them around the _lancashire queen_, and at last we could see that even their iron muscles were giving out. they were nearly exhausted, and it was only a matter of a few more circuits, when the game took on a new feature. on the row to windward they always gained on us, so that they were half-way down the ship's side on the row to leeward when we were passing the bow. but this last time, as we passed the bow, we saw them escaping up the ship's gangway, which had been suddenly lowered. it was an organized move on the part of the sailors, evidently countenanced by the captain; for by the time we arrived where the gangway had been, it was being hoisted up, and the skiff, slung in the ship's davits, was likewise flying aloft out of reach. the parley that followed with the captain was short and snappy. he absolutely forbade us to board the _lancashire queen_, and as absolutely refused to give up the two men. by this time charley was as enraged as the greek. not only had he been foiled in a long and ridiculous chase, but he had been knocked senseless into the bottom of his boat by the men who had escaped him. "knock off my head with little apples," he declared emphatically, striking the fist of one hand into the palm of the other, "if those two men ever escape me! i'll stay here to get them if it takes the rest of my natural life, and if i don't get them, then i promise you i'll live unnaturally long or until i do get them, or my name's not charley le grant!" and then began the siege of the _lancashire queen_, a siege memorable in the annals of both fishermen and fish patrol. when the _reindeer_ came along, after a fruitless pursuit of the shad fleet, charley instructed neil partington to send out his own salmon boat, with blankets, provisions, and a fisherman's charcoal stove. by sunset this exchange of boats was made, and we said good-by to our greek, who perforce had to go into benicia and be locked up for his own violation of the law. after supper, charley and i kept alternate four-hour watches till daylight. the fishermen made no attempt to escape that night, though the ship sent out a boat for scouting purposes to find if the coast were clear. by the next day we saw that a steady siege was in order, and we perfected our plans with an eye to our own comfort. a dock, known as the solano wharf, which ran out from the benicia shore, helped us in this. it happened that the _lancashire queen_, the shore at turner's shipyard, and the solano wharf were the corners of a big equilateral triangle. from ship to shore, the side of the triangle along which the italians had to escape, was a distance equal to that from the solano wharf to the shore, the side of the triangle along which we had to travel to get to the shore before the italians. but as we could sail much faster than they could row, we could permit them to travel about half their side of the triangle before we darted out along our side. if we allowed them to get more than half-way, they were certain to beat us to shore; while if we started before they were half-way, they were equally certain to beat us back to the ship. we found that an imaginary line, drawn from the end of the wharf to a windmill farther along the shore, cut precisely in half the line of the triangle along which the italians must escape to reach the land. this line made it easy for us to determine how far to let them run away before we bestirred ourselves in pursuit. day after day we would watch them through our glasses as they rowed leisurely along toward the half-way point; and as they drew close into line with the windmill, we would leap into the boat and get up sail. at sight of our preparation, they would turn and row slowly back to the _lancashire queen_, secure in the knowledge that we could not overtake them. to guard against calms--when our salmon boat would be useless--we also had in readiness a light rowing skiff equipped with spoon-oars. but at such times, when the wind failed us, we were forced to row out from the wharf as soon as they rowed from the ship. in the night-time, on the other hand, we were compelled to patrol the immediate vicinity of the ship; which we did, charley and i standing four-hour watches turn and turn about. the italians, however, preferred the daytime in which to escape, and so our long night vigils were without result. "what makes me mad," said charley, "is our being kept from our honest beds while those rascally lawbreakers are sleeping soundly every night. but much good may it do them," he threatened. "i'll keep them on that ship till the captain charges them board, as sure as a sturgeon's not a catfish!" it was a tantalizing problem that confronted us. as long as we were vigilant, they could not escape; and as long as they were careful, we would be unable to catch them. charley cudgelled his brains continually, but for once his imagination failed him. it was a problem apparently without other solution than that of patience. it was a waiting game, and whichever waited the longer was bound to win. to add to our irritation, friends of the italians established a code of signals with them from the shore, so that we never dared relax the siege for a moment. and besides this, there were always one or two suspicious-looking fishermen hanging around the solano wharf and keeping watch on our actions. we could do nothing but "grin and bear it," as charley said, while it took up all our time and prevented us from doing other work. the days went by, and there was no change in the situation. not that no attempts were made to change it. one night friends from the shore came out in a skiff and attempted to confuse us while the two italians escaped. that they did not succeed was due to the lack of a little oil on the ship's davits. for we were drawn back from the pursuit of the strange boat by the creaking of the davits, and arrived at the _lancashire queen_ just as the italians were lowering their skiff. another night, fully half a dozen skiffs rowed around us in the darkness, but we held on like a leech to the side of the ship and frustrated their plan till they grew angry and showered us with abuse. charley laughed to himself in the bottom of the boat. "it's a good sign, lad," he said to me. "when men begin to abuse, make sure they're losing patience; and shortly after they lose patience, they lose their heads. mark my words, if we only hold out, they'll get careless some fine day, and then we'll get them." but they did not grow careless, and charley confessed that this was one of the times when all signs failed. their patience seemed equal to ours, and the second week of the siege dragged monotonously along. then charley's lagging imagination quickened sufficiently to suggest a ruse. peter boyelen, a new patrolman and one unknown to the fisher-folk, happened to arrive in benicia, and we took him into our plan. we were as secret as possible about it, but in some unfathomable way the friends ashore got word to the beleaguered italians to keep their eyes open. on the night we were to put our ruse into effect, charley and i took up our usual station in our rowing skiff alongside the _lancashire queen_. after it was thoroughly dark, peter boyelen came out in a crazy duck boat, the kind you can pick up and carry away under one arm. when we heard him coming along, paddling noisily, we slipped away a short distance into the darkness and rested on our oars. opposite the gangway, having jovially hailed the anchor-watch of the _lancashire queen_ and asked the direction of the _scottish chiefs_, another wheat ship, he awkwardly capsized himself. the man who was standing the anchor-watch ran down the gangway and hauled him out of the water. this was what he wanted, to get aboard the ship; and the next thing he expected was to be taken on deck and then below to warm up and dry out. but the captain inhospitably kept him perched on the lowest gangway step, shivering miserably and with his feet dangling in the water, till we, out of very pity, rowed in from the darkness and took him off. the jokes and gibes of the awakened crew sounded anything but sweet in our ears, and even the two italians climbed up on the rail and laughed down at us long and maliciously. "that's all right," charley said in a low voice, which i only could hear. "i'm mighty glad it's not us that's laughing first. we'll save our laugh to the end, eh, lad?" he clapped a hand on my shoulder as he finished, but it seemed to me that there was more determination than hope in his voice. it would have been possible for us to secure the aid of united states marshals and board the english ship, backed by government authority. but the instructions of the fish commission were to the effect that the patrolmen should avoid complications, and this one, did we call on the higher powers, might well end in a pretty international tangle. the second week of the siege drew to its close, and there was no sign of change in the situation. on the morning of the fourteenth day the change came, and it came in a guise as unexpected and startling to us as it was to the men we were striving to capture. charley and i, after our customary night vigil by the side of the _lancashire queen_, rowed into the solano wharf. "hello!" cried charley, in surprise. "in the name of reason and common sense, what is that? of all unmannerly craft did you ever see the like?" well might he exclaim, for there, tied up to the dock, lay the strangest-looking launch i had ever seen. not that it could be called a launch, either, but it seemed to resemble a launch more than any other kind of boat. it was seventy feet long, but so narrow was it, and so bare of superstructure, that it appeared much smaller than it really was. it was built wholly of steel, and was painted black. three smokestacks, a good distance apart and raking well aft, arose in single file amidships; while the bow, long and lean and sharp as a knife, plainly advertised that the boat was made for speed. passing under the stern, we read _streak_, painted in small white letters. charley and i were consumed with curiosity. in a few minutes we were on board and talking with an engineer who was watching the sunrise from the deck. he was quite willing to satisfy our curiosity, and in a few minutes we learned that the _streak_ had come in after dark from san francisco; that this was what might be called the trial trip; and that she was the property of silas tate, a young mining millionaire of california, whose fad was high-speed yachts. there was some talk about turbine engines, direct application of steam, and the absence of pistons, rods, and cranks,--all of which was beyond me, for i was familiar only with sailing craft; but i did understand the last words of the engineer. "four thousand horse-power and forty-five miles an hour, though you wouldn't think it," he concluded proudly. "say it again, man! say it again!" charley exclaimed in an excited voice. "four thousand horse-power and forty-five miles an hour," the engineer repeated, grinning good-naturedly. "where's the owner?" was charley's next question. "is there any way i can speak to him?" the engineer shook his head. "no, i'm afraid not. he's asleep, you see." at that moment a young man in blue uniform came on deck farther aft and stood regarding the sunrise. "there he is, that's him, that's mr. tate," said the engineer. charley walked aft and spoke to him, and while he talked earnestly the young man listened with an amused expression on his face. he must have inquired about the depth of water close in to the shore at turner's shipyard, for i could see charley making gestures and explaining. a few minutes later he came back in high glee. "come on, lad," he said. "on to the dock with you. we've got them!" it was our good fortune to leave the _streak_ when we did, for a little later one of the spy fishermen appeared. charley and i took up our accustomed places, on the stringer-piece, a little ahead of the _streak_ and over our own boat, where we could comfortably watch the _lancashire queen_. nothing occurred till about nine o'clock, when we saw the two italians leave the ship and pull along their side of the triangle toward the shore. charley looked as unconcerned as could be, but before they had covered a quarter of the distance, he whispered to me: "forty-five miles an hour...nothing can save them...they are ours!" slowly the two men rowed along till they were nearly in line with the windmill. this was the point where we always jumped into our salmon boat and got up the sail, and the two men, evidently expecting it, seemed surprised when we gave no sign. when they were directly in line with the windmill, as near to the shore as to the ship, and nearer the shore than we had ever allowed them before, they grew suspicious. we followed them through the glasses, and saw them standing up in the skiff and trying to find out what we were doing. the spy fisherman, sitting beside us on the stringerpiece, was likewise puzzled. he could not understand our inactivity. the men in the skiff rowed nearer the shore, but stood up again and scanned it, as if they thought we might be in hiding there. but a man came out on the beach and waved a handkerchief to indicate that the coast was clear. that settled them. they bent to the oars to make a dash for it. still charley waited. not until they had covered three-quarters of the distance from the _lancashire queen_, which left them hardly more than a quarter of a mile to gain the shore, did charley slap me on the shoulder and cry: "they're ours! they're ours!" we ran the few steps to the side of the _streak_ and jumped aboard. stern and bow lines were cast off in a jiffy. the _streak_ shot ahead and away from the wharf. the spy fisherman we had left behind on the stringer-piece pulled out a revolver and fired five shots into the air in rapid succession. the men in the skiff gave instant heed to the warning, for we could see them pulling away like mad. but if they pulled like mad, i wonder how our progress can be described? we fairly flew. so frightful was the speed with which we displaced the water, that a wave rose up on either side our bow and foamed aft in a series of three stiff, up-standing waves, while astern a great crested billow pursued us hungrily, as though at each moment it would fall aboard and destroy us. the _streak_ was pulsing and vibrating and roaring like a thing alive. the wind of our progress was like a gale--a forty-five-mile gale. we could not face it and draw breath without choking and strangling. it blew the smoke straight back from the mouths of the smoke-stacks at a direct right angle to the perpendicular. in fact, we were travelling as fast as an express train. "we just _streaked_ it," was the way charley told it afterward, and i think his description comes nearer than any i can give. as for the italians in the skiff--hardly had we started, it seemed to me, when we were on top of them. naturally, we had to slow down long before we got to them; but even then we shot past like a whirlwind and were compelled to circle back between them and the shore. they had rowed steadily, rising from the thwarts at every stroke, up to the moment we passed them, when they recognized charley and me. that took the last bit of fight out of them. they hauled in their oars and sullenly submitted to arrest. "well, charley," neil partington said, as we discussed it on the wharf afterward, "i fail to see where your boasted imagination came into play this time." but charley was true to his hobby. "imagination?" he demanded, pointing to the _streak_. "look at that! just look at it! if the invention of that isn't imagination, i should like to know what is." "of course," he added, "it's the other fellow's imagination, but it did the work all the same." v charley's coup perhaps our most laughable exploit on the fish patrol, and at the same time our most dangerous one, was when we rounded in, at a single haul, an even score of wrathful fishermen. charley called it a "coop," having heard neil partington use the term; but i think he misunderstood the word, and thought it meant "coop," to catch, to trap. the fishermen, however, coup or coop, must have called it a waterloo, for it was the severest stroke ever dealt them by the fish patrol, while they had invited it by open and impudent defiance of the law. during what is called the "open season" the fishermen might catch as many salmon as their luck allowed and their boats could hold. but there was one important restriction. from sun-down saturday night to sun-up monday morning, they were not permitted to set a net. this was a wise provision on the part of the fish commission, for it was necessary to give the spawning salmon some opportunity to ascend the river and lay their eggs. and this law, with only an occasional violation, had been obediently observed by the greek fishermen who caught salmon for the canneries and the market. one sunday morning, charley received a telephone call from a friend in collinsville, who told him that the full force of fishermen was out with its nets. charley and i jumped into our salmon boat and started for the scene of the trouble. with a light favoring wind at our back we went through the carquinez straits, crossed suisun bay, passed the ship island light, and came upon the whole fleet at work. but first let me describe the method by which they worked. the net used is what is known as a gill-net. it has a simple diamond-shaped mesh which measures at least seven and one-half inches between the knots. from five to seven and even eight hundred feet in length, these nets are only a few feet wide. they are not stationary, but float with the current, the upper edge supported on the surface by floats, the lower edge sunk by means of leaden weights. this arrangement keeps the net upright in the current and effectually prevents all but the smaller fish from ascending the river. the salmon, swimming near the surface, as is their custom, run their heads through these meshes, and are prevented from going on through by their larger girth of body, and from going back because of their gills, which catch in the mesh. it requires two fishermen to set such a net,--one to row the boat, while the other, standing in the stern, carefully pays out the net. when it is all out, stretching directly across the stream, the men make their boat fast to one end of the net and drift along with it. as we came upon the fleet of law-breaking fishermen, each boat two or three hundred yards from its neighbors, and boats and nets dotting the river as far as we could see, charley said: "i've only one regret, lad, and that is that i haven't a thousand arms so as to be able to catch them all. as it is, we'll only be able to catch one boat, for while we are tackling that one it will be up nets and away with the rest." as we drew closer, we observed none of the usual flurry and excitement which our appearance invariably produced. instead, each boat lay quietly by its net, while the fishermen favored us with not the slightest attention. "it's curious," charley muttered. "can it be they don't recognize us?" i said that it was impossible, and charley agreed; yet there was a whole fleet, manned by men who knew us only too well, and who took no more notice of us than if we were a hay scow or a pleasure yacht. this did not continue to be the case, however, for as we bore down upon the nearest net, the men to whom it belonged detached their boat and rowed slowly toward the shore. the rest of the boats showed no sign of uneasiness. "that's funny," was charley's remark. "but we can confiscate the net, at any rate." we lowered sail, picked up one end of the net, and began to heave it into the boat. but at the first heave we heard a bullet zip-zipping past us on the water, followed by the faint report of a rifle. the men who had rowed ashore were shooting at us. at the next heave a second bullet went zipping past, perilously near. charley took a turn around a pin and sat down. there were no more shots. but as soon as he began to heave in, the shooting recommenced. "that settles it," he said, flinging the end of the net overboard. "you fellows want it worse than we do, and you can have it." we rowed over toward the next net, for charley was intent on finding out whether or not we were face to face with an organized defiance. as we approached, the two fishermen proceeded to cast off from their net and row ashore, while the first two rowed back and made fast to the net we had abandoned. and at the second net we were greeted by rifle shots till we desisted and went on to the third, where the manoeuvre was again repeated. then we gave it up, completely routed, and hoisted sail and started on the long wind-ward beat back to benicia. a number of sundays went by, on each of which the law was persistently violated. yet, short of an armed force of soldiers, we could do nothing. the fishermen had hit upon a new idea and were using it for all it was worth, while there seemed no way by which we could get the better of them. about this time neil partington happened along from the lower bay, where he had been for a number of weeks. with him was nicholas, the greek boy who had helped us in our raid on the oyster pirates, and the pair of them took a hand. we made our arrangements carefully. it was planned that while charley and i tackled the nets, they were to be hidden ashore so as to ambush the fishermen who landed to shoot at us. it was a pretty plan. even charley said it was. but we reckoned not half so well as the greeks. they forestalled us by ambushing neil and nicholas and taking them prisoners, while, as of old, bullets whistled about our ears when charley and i attempted to take possession of the nets. when we were again beaten off, neil partington and nicholas were released. they were rather shamefaced when they put in an appearance, and charley chaffed them unmercifully. but neil chaffed back, demanding to know why charley's imagination had not long since overcome the difficulty. "just you wait; the idea'll come all right," charley promised. "most probably," neil agreed. "but i'm afraid the salmon will be exterminated first, and then there will be no need for it when it does come." neil partington, highly disgusted with his adventure, departed for the lower bay, taking nicholas with him, and charley and i were left to our own resources. this meant that the sunday fishing would be left to itself, too, until such time as charley's idea happened along. i puzzled my head a good deal to find out some way of checkmating the greeks, as also did charley, and we broached a thousand expedients which on discussion proved worthless. the fishermen, on the other hand, were in high feather, and their boasts went up and down the river to add to our discomfiture. among all classes of them we became aware of a growing insubordination. we were beaten, and they were losing respect for us. with the loss of respect, contempt began to arise. charley began to be spoken of as the "olda woman," and i received my rating as the "pee-wee kid." the situation was fast becoming unbearable, and we knew that we should have to deliver a stunning stroke at the greeks in order to regain the old-time respect in which we had stood. then one morning the idea came. we were down on steamboat wharf, where the river steamers made their landings, and where we found a group of amused long-shoremen and loafers listening to the hard-luck tale of a sleepy-eyed young fellow in long sea-boots. he was a sort of amateur fisherman, he said, fishing for the local market of berkeley. now berkeley was on the lower bay, thirty miles away. on the previous night, he said, he had set his net and dozed off to sleep in the bottom of the boat. the next he knew it was morning, and he opened his eyes to find his boat rubbing softly against the piles of steamboat wharf at benicia. also he saw the river steamer _apache_ lying ahead of him, and a couple of deck-hands disentangling the shreds of his net from the paddle-wheel. in short, after he had gone to sleep, his fisherman's riding light had gone out, and the _apache_ had run over his net. though torn pretty well to pieces, the net in some way still remained foul, and he had had a thirty-mile tow out of his course. charley nudged me with his elbow. i grasped his thought on the instant, but objected: "we can't charter a steamboat." "don't intend to," he rejoined. "but let's run over to turner's shipyard. i've something in my mind there that may be of use to us." and over we went to the shipyard, where charley led the way to the _mary rebecca_, lying hauled out on the ways, where she was being cleaned and overhauled. she was a scow-schooner we both knew well, carrying a cargo of one hundred and forty tons and a spread of canvas greater than any other schooner on the bay. "how d'ye do, ole," charley greeted a big blue-shirted swede who was greasing the jaws of the main gaff with a piece of pork rind. ole grunted, puffed away at his pipe, and went on greasing. the captain of a bay schooner is supposed to work with his hands just as well as the men. ole ericsen verified charley's conjecture that the _mary rebecca_, as soon as launched, would run up the san joaquin river nearly to stockton for a load of wheat. then charley made his proposition, and ole ericsen shook his head. "just a hook, one good-sized hook," charley pleaded. "no, ay tank not," said ole ericsen. "der _mary rebecca_ yust hang up on efery mud-bank with that hook. ay don't want to lose der _mary rebecca_. she's all ay got." "no, no," charley hurried to explain. "we can put the end of the hook through the bottom from the outside, and fasten it on the inside with a nut. after it's done its work, why, all we have to do is to go down into the hold, unscrew the nut, and out drops the hook. then drive a wooden peg into the hole, and the _mary rebecca_ will be all right again." ole ericsen was obstinate for a long time; but in the end, after we had had dinner with him, he was brought round to consent. "ay do it, by yupiter!" he said, striking one huge fist into the palm of the other hand. "but yust hurry you up with der hook. der _mary rebecca_ slides into der water to-night." it was saturday, and charley had need to hurry. we headed for the shipyard blacksmith shop, where, under charley's directions, a most generously curved hook of heavy steel was made. back we hastened to the _mary rebecca_. aft of the great centre-board case, through what was properly her keel, a hole was bored. the end of the hook was inserted from the outside, and charley, on the inside, screwed the nut on tightly. as it stood complete, the hook projected over a foot beneath the bottom of the schooner. its curve was something like the curve of a sickle, but deeper. in the late afternoon the _mary rebecca_ was launched, and preparations were finished for the start up-river next morning. charley and ole intently studied the evening sky for signs of wind, for without a good breeze our project was doomed to failure. they agreed that there were all the signs of a stiff westerly wind--not the ordinary afternoon sea-breeze, but a half-gale, which even then was springing up. next morning found their predictions verified. the sun was shining brightly, but something more than a half-gale was shrieking up the carquinez straits, and the _mary rebecca_ got under way with two reefs in her mainsail and one in her foresail. we found it quite rough in the straits and in suisun bay; but as the water grew more land-locked it became calm, though without let-up in the wind. off ship island light the reefs were shaken out, and at charley's suggestion a big fisherman's staysail was made all ready for hoisting, and the main-topsail, bunched into a cap at the masthead, was overhauled so that it could be set on an instant's notice. we were tearing along, wing-and-wing, before the wind, foresail to starboard and mainsail to port, as we came upon the salmon fleet. there they were, boats and nets, as on that first sunday when they had bested us, strung out evenly over the river as far as we could see. a narrow space on the right-hand side of the channel was left clear for steam-boats, but the rest of the river was covered with the wide-stretching nets. the narrow space was our logical course, but charley, at the wheel, steered the _mary rebecca_ straight for the nets. this did not cause any alarm among the fishermen, because up-river sailing craft are always provided with "shoes" on the ends of their keels, which permit them to slip over the nets without fouling them. "now she takes it!" charley cried, as we dashed across the middle of a line of floats which marked a net. at one end of this line was a small barrel buoy, at the other the two fishermen in their boat. buoy and boat at once began to draw together, and the fishermen to cry out, as they were jerked after us. a couple of minutes later we hooked a second net, and then a third, and in this fashion we tore straight up through the centre of the fleet. the consternation we spread among the fishermen was tremendous. as fast as we hooked a net the two ends of it, buoy and boat, came together as they dragged out astern; and so many buoys and boats, coming together at such breakneck speed, kept the fishermen on the jump to avoid smashing into one another. also, they shouted at us like mad to heave to into the wind, for they took it as some drunken prank on the part of scow-sailors, little dreaming that we were the fish patrol. the drag of a single net is very heavy, and charley and ole ericsen decided that even in such a wind ten nets were all the _mary rebecca_ could take along with her. so when we had hooked ten nets, with ten boats containing twenty men streaming along behind us, we veered to the left out of the fleet and headed toward collinsville. we were all jubilant. charley was handling the wheel as though he were steering the winning yacht home in a race. the two sailors who made up the crew of the _mary rebecca_, were grinning and joking. ole ericsen was rubbing his huge hands in child-like glee. [illustration: "the consternation we spread among the fishermen was tremendous."] "ay tank you fish patrol fallers never ban so lucky as when you sail with ole ericsen," he was saying, when a rifle cracked sharply astern, and a bullet gouged along the newly painted cabin, glanced on a nail, and sang shrilly onward into space. this was too much for ole ericsen. at sight of his beloved paintwork thus defaced, he jumped up and shook his fist at the fishermen; but a second bullet smashed into the cabin not six inches from his head, and he dropped down to the deck under cover of the rail. all the fishermen had rifles, and they now opened a general fusillade. we were all driven to cover--even charley, who was compelled to desert the wheel. had it not been for the heavy drag of the nets, we would inevitably have broached to at the mercy of the enraged fishermen. but the nets, fastened to the bottom of the _mary rebecca_ well aft, held her stern into the wind, and she continued to plough on, though somewhat erratically. charley, lying on the deck, could just manage to reach the lower spokes of the wheel; but while he could steer after a fashion, it was very awkward. ole ericsen bethought himself of a large piece of sheet steel in the empty hold. it was in fact a plate from the side of the _new jersey_, a steamer which had recently been wrecked outside the golden gate, and in the salving of which the _mary rebecca_ had taken part. crawling carefully along the deck, the two sailors, ole, and myself got the heavy plate on deck and aft, where we reared it as a shield between the wheel and the fishermen. the bullets whanged and banged against it till it rang like a bull's-eye, but charley grinned in its shelter, and coolly went on steering. so we raced along, behind us a howling, screaming bedlam of wrathful greeks, collinsville ahead, and bullets spat-spatting all around us. "ole," charley said in a faint voice, "i don't know what we're going to do." ole ericsen, lying on his back close to the rail and grinning upward at the sky, turned over on his side and looked at him. "ay tank we go into collinsville yust der same," he said. "but we can't stop," charley groaned. "i never thought of it, but we can't stop." a look of consternation slowly overspread ole ericsen's broad face. it was only too true. we had a hornet's nest on our hands, and to stop at collinsville would be to have it about our ears. "every man jack of them has a gun," one of the sailors remarked cheerfully. "yes, and a knife, too," the other sailor added. it was ole ericsen's turn to groan. "what for a svaidish faller like me monkey with none of my biziness, i don't know," he soliloquized. a bullet glanced on the stern and sang off to starboard like a spiteful bee. "there's nothing to do but plump the _mary rebecca_ ashore and run for it," was the verdict of the first cheerful sailor. "and leaf der _mary rebecca_?" ole demanded, with unspeakable horror in his voice. "not unless you want to," was the response. "but i don't want to be within a thousand miles of her when those fellers come aboard"--indicating the bedlam of excited greeks towing behind. we were right in at collinsville then, and went foaming by within biscuit-toss of the wharf. "i only hope the wind holds out," charley said, stealing a glance at our prisoners. "what of der wind?" ole demanded disconsolately. "der river will not hold out, and then...and then..." "it's head for tall timber, and the greeks take the hindermost," adjudged the cheerful sailor, while ole was stuttering over what would happen when we came to the end of the river. we had now reached a dividing of the ways. to the left was the mouth of the sacramento river, to the right the mouth of the san joaquin. the cheerful sailor crept forward and jibed over the foresail as charley put the helm to starboard and we swerved to the right into the san joaquin. the wind, from which we had been running away on an even keel, now caught us on our beam, and the _mary rebecca_ was pressed down on her port side as if she were about to capsize. still we dashed on, and still the fishermen dashed on behind. the value of their nets was greater than the fines they would have to pay for violating the fish laws; so to cast off from their nets and escape, which they could easily do, would profit them nothing. further, they remained by their nets instinctively, as a sailor remains by his ship. and still further, the desire for vengeance was roused, and we could depend upon it that they would follow us to the ends of the earth, if we undertook to tow them that far. the rifle-firing had ceased, and we looked astern to see what our prisoners were doing. the boats were strung along at unequal distances apart, and we saw the four nearest ones bunching together. this was done by the boat ahead trailing a small rope astern to the one behind. when this was caught, they would cast off from their net and heave in on the line till they were brought up to the boat in front. so great was the speed at which we were travelling, however, that this was very slow work. sometimes the men would strain to their utmost and fail to get in an inch of the rope; at other times they came ahead more rapidly. when the four boats were near enough together for a man to pass from one to another, one greek from each of three got into the nearest boat to us, taking his rifle with him. this made five in the foremost boat, and it was plain that their intention was to board us. this they undertook to do, by main strength and sweat, running hand over hand the float-line of a net. and though it was slow, and they stopped frequently to rest, they gradually drew nearer. charley smiled at their efforts, and said, "give her the topsail, ole." the cap at the mainmast head was broken out, and sheet and downhaul pulled flat, amid a scattering rifle fire from the boats; and the _mary rebecca_ lay over and sprang ahead faster than ever. but the greeks were undaunted. unable, at the increased speed, to draw themselves nearer by means of their hands, they rigged from the blocks of their boat sail what sailors call a "watch-tackle." one of them, held by the legs by his mates, would lean far over the bow and make the tackle fast to the float-line. then they would heave in on the tackle till the blocks were together, when the manoeuvre would be repeated. "have to give her the staysail," charley said. ole ericsen looked at the straining _mary rebecca_ and shook his head. "it will take der masts out of her," he said. "and we'll be taken out of her if you don't," charley replied. ole shot an anxious glance at his masts, another at the boat load of armed greeks, and consented. the five men were in the bow of the boat--a bad place when a craft is towing. i was watching the behavior of their boat as the great fisherman's staysail, far, far larger than the topsail and used only in light breezes, was broken out. as the _mary rebecca_ lurched forward with a tremendous jerk, the nose of the boat ducked down into the water, and the men tumbled over one another in a wild rush into the stern to save the boat from being dragged sheer under water. "that settles them!" charley remarked, though he was anxiously studying the behavior of the _mary rebecca_, which was being driven under far more canvas than she was rightly able to carry. "next stop is antioch!" announced the cheerful sailor, after the manner of a railway conductor. "and next comes merryweather!" "come here, quick," charley said to me. i crawled across the deck and stood upright beside him in the shelter of the sheet steel. "feel in my inside pocket," he commanded, "and get my notebook. that's right. tear out a blank page and write what i tell you." and this is what i wrote: telephone to merryweather, to the sheriff, the constable, or the judge. tell them we are coming and to turn out the town. arm everybody. have them down on the wharf to meet us or we are gone gooses. "now make it good and fast to that marlinspike, and stand by to toss it ashore." i did as he directed. by then we were close to antioch. the wind was shouting through our rigging, the _mary rebecca_ was half over on her side and rushing ahead like an ocean greyhound. the seafaring folk of antioch had seen us breaking out topsail and staysail, a most reckless performance in such weather, and had hurried to the wharf-ends in little groups to find out what was the matter. straight down the water front we boomed, charley edging in till a man could almost leap ashore. when he gave the signal i tossed the marlinspike. it struck the planking of the wharf a resounding smash, bounced along fifteen or twenty feet, and was pounced upon by the amazed onlookers. it all happened in a flash, for the next minute antioch was behind and we were heeling it up the san joaquin toward merryweather, six miles away. the river straightened out here into its general easterly course, and we squared away before the wind, wing-and-wing once more, the foresail bellying out to starboard. ole ericsen seemed sunk into a state of stolid despair. charley and the two sailors were looking hopeful, as they had good reason to be. merryweather was a coal-mining town, and, it being sunday, it was reasonable to expect the men to be in town. further, the coal-miners had never lost any love for the greek fishermen, and were pretty certain to render us hearty assistance. we strained our eyes for a glimpse of the town, and the first sight we caught of it gave us immense relief. the wharves were black with men. as we came closer, we could see them still arriving, stringing down the main street, guns in their hands and on the run. charley glanced astern at the fishermen with a look of ownership in his eye which till then had been missing. the greeks were plainly overawed by the display of armed strength and were putting their own rifles away. we took in topsail and staysail, dropped the main peak, and as we got abreast of the principal wharf jibed the mainsail. the _mary rebecca_ shot around into the wind, the captive fishermen describing a great arc behind her, and forged ahead till she lost way, when lines were flung ashore and she was made fast. this was accomplished under a hurricane of cheers from the delighted miners. ole ericsen heaved a great sigh. "ay never tank ay see my wife never again," he confessed. "why, we were never in any danger," said charley. ole looked at him incredulously. "sure, i mean it," charley went on. "all we had to do, any time, was to let go our end--as i am going to do now, so that those greeks can untangle their nets." he went below with a monkey-wrench, unscrewed the nut, and let the hook drop off. when the greeks had hauled their nets into their boats and made everything ship-shape, a posse of citizens took them off our hands and led them away to jail. "ay tank ay ban a great big fool," said ole ericsen. but he changed his mind when the admiring townspeople crowded aboard to shake hands with him, and a couple of enterprising newspaper men took photographs of the _mary rebecca_ and her captain. vi demetrios contos it must not be thought, from what i have told of the greek fishermen, that they were altogether bad. far from it. but they were rough men, gathered together in isolated communities and fighting with the elements for a livelihood. they lived far away from the law and its workings, did not understand it, and thought it tyranny. especially did the fish laws seem tyrannical. and because of this, they looked upon the men of the fish patrol as their natural enemies. we menaced their lives, or their living, which is the same thing, in many ways. we confiscated illegal traps and nets, the materials of which had cost them considerable sums and the making of which required weeks of labor. we prevented them from catching fish at many times and seasons, which was equivalent to preventing them from making as good a living as they might have made had we not been in existence. and when we captured them, they were brought into the courts of law, where heavy cash fines were collected from them. as a result, they hated us vindictively. as the dog is the natural enemy of the cat, the snake of man, so were we of the fish patrol the natural enemies of the fishermen. but it is to show that they could act generously as well as hate bitterly that this story of demetrios contos is told. demetrios contos lived in vallejo. next to big alec, he was the largest, bravest, and most influential man among the greeks. he had given us no trouble, and i doubt if he would ever have clashed with us had he not invested in a new salmon boat. this boat was the cause of all the trouble. he had had it built upon his own model, in which the lines of the general salmon boat were somewhat modified. to his high elation he found his new boat very fast--in fact, faster than any other boat on the bay or rivers. forthwith he grew proud and boastful: and, our raid with the _mary rebecca_ on the sunday salmon fishers having wrought fear in their hearts, he sent a challenge up to benicia. one of the local fishermen conveyed it to us; it was to the effect that demetrios contos would sail up from vallejo on the following sunday, and in the plain sight of benicia set his net and catch salmon, and that charley le grant, patrolman, might come and get him if he could. of course charley and i had heard nothing of the new boat. our own boat was pretty fast, and we were not afraid to have a brush with any other that happened along. sunday came. the challenge had been bruited abroad, and the fishermen and seafaring folk of benicia turned out to a man, crowding steamboat wharf till it looked like the grand stand at a football match. charley and i had been sceptical, but the fact of the crowd convinced us that there was something in demetrios contos's dare. in the afternoon, when the sea-breeze had picked up in strength, his sail hove into view as he bowled along before the wind. he tacked a score of feet from the wharf, waved his hand theatrically, like a knight about to enter the lists, received a hearty cheer in return, and stood away into the straits for a couple of hundred yards. then he lowered sail, and, drifting the boat sidewise by means of the wind, proceeded to set his net. he did not set much of it, possibly fifty feet; yet charley and i were thunderstruck at the man's effrontery. we did not know at the time, but we learned afterward, that the net he used was old and worthless. it _could_ catch fish, true; but a catch of any size would have torn it to pieces. charley shook his head and said: "i confess, it puzzles me. what if he has out only fifty feet? he could never get it in if we once started for him. and why does he come here anyway, flaunting his law-breaking in our faces? right in our home town, too." charley's voice took on an aggrieved tone, and he continued for some minutes to inveigh against the brazenness of demetrios contos. in the meantime, the man in question was lolling in the stern of his boat and watching the net floats. when a large fish is meshed in a gill-net, the floats by their agitation advertise the fact. and they evidently advertised it to demetrios, for he pulled in about a dozen feet of net, and held aloft for a moment, before he flung it into the bottom of the boat, a big, glistening salmon. it was greeted by the audience on the wharf with round after round of cheers. this was more than charley could stand. "come on, lad," he called to me; and we lost no time jumping into our salmon boat and getting up sail. the crowd shouted warning to demetrios, and as we darted out from the wharf we saw him slash his worthless net clear with a long knife. his sail was all ready to go up, and a moment later it fluttered in the sunshine. he ran aft, drew in the sheet, and filled on the long tack toward the contra costa hills. by this time we were not more than thirty feet astern. charley was jubilant. he knew our boat was fast, and he knew, further, that in fine sailing few men were his equals. he was confident that we should surely catch demetrios, and i shared his confidence. but somehow we did not seem to gain. it was a pretty sailing breeze. we were gliding sleekly through the water, but demetrios was slowly sliding away from us. and not only was he going faster, but he was eating into the wind a fraction of a point closer than we. this was sharply impressed upon us when he went about under the contra costa hills and passed us on the other tack fully one hundred feet dead to windward. "whew!" charley exclaimed. "either that boat is a daisy, or we've got a five-gallon coal-oil can fast to our keel!" it certainly looked it one way or the other. and by the time demetrios made the sonoma hills, on the other side of the straits, we were so hopelessly outdistanced that charley told me to slack off the sheet, and we squared away for benicia. the fishermen on steamboat wharf showered us with ridicule when we returned and tied up. charley and i got out and walked away, feeling rather sheepish, for it is a sore stroke to one's pride when he thinks he has a good boat and knows how to sail it, and another man comes along and beats him. charley mooned over it for a couple of days; then word was brought to us, as before, that on the next sunday demetrios contos would repeat his performance. charley roused himself. he had our boat out of the water, cleaned and repainted its bottom, made a trifling alteration about the centre-board, overhauled the running gear, and sat up nearly all of saturday night sewing on a new and much larger sail. so large did he make it, in fact, that additional ballast was imperative, and we stowed away nearly five hundred extra pounds of old railroad iron in the bottom of the boat. sunday came, and with it came demetrios contos, to break the law defiantly in open day. again we had the afternoon sea-breeze, and again demetrios cut loose some forty or more feet of his rotten net, and got up sail and under way under our very noses. but he had anticipated charley's move, and his own sail peaked higher than ever, while a whole extra cloth had been added to the after leech. it was nip and tuck across to the contra costa hills, neither of us seeming to gain or to lose. but by the time we had made the return tack to the sonoma hills, we could see that, while we footed it at about equal speed, demetrios had eaten into the wind the least bit more than we. yet charley was sailing our boat as finely and delicately as it was possible to sail it, and getting more out of it than he ever had before. of course, he could have drawn his revolver and fired at demetrios; but we had long since found it contrary to our natures to shoot at a fleeing man guilty of only a petty offence. also a sort of tacit agreement seemed to have been reached between the patrolmen and the fishermen. if we did not shoot while they ran away, they, in turn, did not fight if we once laid hands on them. thus demetrios contos ran away from us, and we did no more than try our best to overtake him; and, in turn, if our boat proved faster than his, or was sailed better, he would, we knew, make no resistance when we caught up with him. with our large sails and the healthy breeze romping up the carquinez straits, we found that our sailing was what is called "ticklish." we had to be constantly on the alert to avoid a capsize, and while charley steered i held the main-sheet in my hand with but a single turn round a pin, ready to let go at any moment. demetrios, we could see, sailing his boat alone, had his hands full. but it was a vain undertaking for us to attempt to catch him. out of his inner consciousness he had evolved a boat that was better than ours. and though charley sailed fully as well, if not the least bit better, the boat he sailed was not so good as the greek's. "slack away the sheet," charley commanded; and as our boat fell off before the wind, demetrios's mocking laugh floated down to us. charley shook his head, saying, "it's no use. demetrios has the better boat. if he tries his performance again, we must meet it with some new scheme." this time it was my imagination that came to the rescue. "what's the matter," i suggested, on the wednesday following, "with my chasing demetrios in the boat next sunday, while you wait for him on the wharf at vallejo when he arrives?" charley considered it a moment and slapped his knee. "a good idea! you're beginning to use that head of yours. a credit to your teacher, i must say." "but you mustn't chase him too far," he went on, the next moment, "or he'll head out into san pablo bay instead of running home to vallejo, and there i'll be, standing lonely on the wharf and waiting in vain for him to arrive." on thursday charley registered an objection to my plan. "everybody'll know i've gone to vallejo, and you can depend upon it that demetrios will know, too. i'm afraid we'll have to give up the idea." this objection was only too valid, and for the rest of the day i struggled under my disappointment. but that night a new way seemed to open to me, and in my eagerness i awoke charley from a sound sleep. "well," he grunted, "what's the matter? house afire?" "no," i replied, "but my head is. listen to this. on sunday you and i will be around benicia up to the very moment demetrios's sail heaves into sight. this will lull everybody's suspicions. then, when demetrios's sail does heave in sight, do you stroll leisurely away and up-town. all the fishermen will think you're beaten and that you know you're beaten." "so far, so good," charley commented, while i paused to catch breath. "and very good indeed," i continued proudly. "you stroll carelessly up-town, but when you're once out of sight you leg it for all you're worth for dan maloney's. take the little mare of his, and strike out on the county road for vallejo. the road's in fine condition, and you can make it in quicker time than demetrios can beat all the way down against the wind." "and i'll arrange right away for the mare, first thing in the morning," charley said, accepting the modified plan without hesitation. "but, i say," he said, a little later, this time waking _me_ out of a sound sleep. i could hear him chuckling in the dark. "i say, lad, isn't it rather a novelty for the fish patrol to be taking to horseback?" "imagination," i answered. "it's what you're always preaching--'keep thinking one thought ahead of the other fellow, and you're bound to win out.'" "he! he!" he chuckled. "and if one thought ahead, including a mare, doesn't take the other fellow's breath away this time, i'm not your humble servant, charley le grant." "but can you manage the boat alone?" he asked, on friday. "remember, we've a ripping big sail on her." i argued my proficiency so well that he did not refer to the matter again till saturday, when he suggested removing one whole cloth from the after leech. i guess it was the disappointment written on my face that made him desist; for i, also, had a pride in my boat-sailing abilities, and i was almost wild to get out alone with the big sail and go tearing down the carquinez straits in the wake of the flying greek. as usual, sunday and demetrios contos arrived together. it had become the regular thing for the fishermen to assemble on steamboat wharf to greet his arrival and to laugh at our discomfiture. he lowered sail a couple of hundred yards out and set his customary fifty feet of rotten net. "i suppose this nonsense will keep up as long as his old net holds out," charley grumbled, with intention, in the hearing of several of the greeks. "den i give-a heem my old-a net-a," one of them spoke up, promptly and maliciously. "i don't care," charley answered. "i've got some old net myself he can have--if he'll come around and ask for it." they all laughed at this, for they could afford to be sweet-tempered with a man so badly outwitted as charley was. "well, so long, lad," charley called to me a moment later. "i think i'll go up-town to maloney's." "let me take the boat out?" i asked. "if you want to," was his answer, as he turned on his heel and walked slowly away. demetrios pulled two large salmon out of his net, and i jumped into the boat. the fishermen crowded around in a spirit of fun, and when i started to get up sail overwhelmed me with all sorts of jocular advice. they even offered extravagant bets to one another that i would surely catch demetrios, and two of them, styling themselves the committee of judges, gravely asked permission to come along with me to see how i did it. but i was in no hurry. i waited to give charley all the time i could, and i pretended dissatisfaction with the stretch of the sail and slightly shifted the small tackle by which the huge sprit forces up the peak. it was not until i was sure that charley had reached dan maloney's and was on the little mare's back, that i cast off from the wharf and gave the big sail to the wind. a stout puff filled it and suddenly pressed the lee gunwale down till a couple of buckets of water came inboard. a little thing like this will happen to the best small-boat sailors, and yet, though i instantly let go the sheet and righted, i was cheered sarcastically, as though i had been guilty of a very awkward blunder. when demetrios saw only one person in the fish patrol boat, and that one a boy, he proceeded to play with me. making a short tack out, with me not thirty feet behind, he returned, with his sheet a little free, to steamboat wharf. and there he made short tacks, and turned and twisted and ducked around, to the great delight of his sympathetic audience. i was right behind him all the time, and i dared to do whatever he did, even when he squared away before the wind and jibed his big sail over--a most dangerous trick with such a sail in such a wind. he depended upon the brisk sea breeze and the strong ebb tide, which together kicked up a nasty sea, to bring me to grief. but i was on my mettle, and never in all my life did i sail a boat better than on that day. i was keyed up to concert pitch, my brain was working smoothly and quickly, my hands never fumbled once, and it seemed that i almost divined the thousand little things which a small-boat sailor must be taking into consideration every second. it was demetrios who came to grief instead. something went wrong with his centre-board, so that it jammed in the case and would not go all the way down. in a moment's breathing space, which he had gained from me by a clever trick, i saw him working impatiently with the centre-board, trying to force it down. i gave him little time, and he was compelled quickly to return to the tiller and sheet. the centre-board made him anxious. he gave over playing with me, and started on the long beat to vallejo. to my joy, on the first long tack across, i found that i could eat into the wind just a little bit closer than he. here was where another man in the boat would have been of value to him; for, with me but a few feet astern, he did not dare let go the tiller and run amidships to try to force down the centre-board. unable to hang on as close in the eye of the wind as formerly, he proceeded to slack his sheet a trifle and to ease off a bit, in order to outfoot me. this i permitted him to do till i had worked to windward, when i bore down upon him. as i drew close, he feinted at coming about. this led me to shoot into the wind to forestall him. but it was only a feint, cleverly executed, and he held back to his course while i hurried to make up lost ground. he was undeniably smarter than i when it came to manoeuvring. time after time i all but had him, and each time he tricked me and escaped. besides, the wind was freshening constantly, and each of us had his hands full to avoid capsizing. as for my boat, it could not have been kept afloat but for the extra ballast. i sat cocked over the weather gunwale, tiller in one hand and sheet in the other; and the sheet, with a single turn around a pin, i was very often forced to let go in the severer puffs. this allowed the sail to spill the wind, which was equivalent to taking off so much driving power, and of course i lost ground. my consolation was that demetrios was as often compelled to do the same thing. the strong ebb-tide, racing down the straits in the teeth of the wind, caused an unusually heavy and spiteful sea, which dashed aboard continually. i was dripping wet, and even the sail was wet half-way up the after leech. once i did succeed in outmanoeuvring demetrios, so that my bow bumped into him amidships. here was where i should have had another man. before i could run forward and leap aboard, he shoved the boats apart with an oar, laughing mockingly in my face as he did so. we were now at the mouth of the straits, in a bad stretch of water. here the vallejo straits and the carquinez straits rushed directly at each other. through the first flowed all the water of napa river and the great tide-lands; through the second flowed all the water of suisun bay and the sacramento and san joaquin rivers. and where such immense bodies of water, flowing swiftly, clashed together, a terrible tide-rip was produced. to make it worse, the wind howled up san pablo bay for fifteen miles and drove in a tremendous sea upon the tide-rip. conflicting currents tore about in all directions, colliding, forming whirlpools, sucks, and boils, and shooting up spitefully into hollow waves which fell aboard as often from leeward as from windward. and through it all, confused, driven into a madness of motion, thundered the great smoking seas from san pablo bay. i was as wildly excited as the water. the boat was behaving splendidly, leaping and lurching through the welter like a race-horse. i could hardly contain myself with the joy of it. the huge sail, the howling wind, the driving seas, the plunging boat--i, a pygmy, a mere speck in the midst of it, was mastering the elemental strife, flying through it and over it, triumphant and victorious. and just then, as i roared along like a conquering hero, the boat received a frightful smash and came instantly to a dead stop. i was flung forward and into the bottom. as i sprang up i caught a fleeting glimpse of a greenish, barnacle-covered object, and knew it at once for what it was, that terror of navigation, a sunken pile. no man may guard against such a thing. water-logged and floating just beneath the surface, it was impossible to sight it in the troubled water in time to escape. the whole bow of the boat must have been crushed in, for in a few seconds the boat was half full. then a couple of seas filled it, and it sank straight down, dragged to bottom by the heavy ballast. so quickly did it all happen that i was entangled in the sail and drawn under. when i fought my way to the surface, suffocating, my lungs almost bursting, i could see nothing of the oars. they must have been swept away by the chaotic currents. i saw demetrios contos looking back from his boat, and heard the vindictive and mocking tones of his voice as he shouted exultantly. he held steadily on his course, leaving me to perish. there was nothing to do but to swim for it, which, in that wild confusion, was at the best a matter of but a few moments. holding my breath and working with my hands, i managed to get off my heavy sea-boots and my jacket. yet there was very little breath i could catch to hold, and i swiftly discovered that it was not so much a matter of swimming as of breathing. i was beaten and buffeted, smashed under by the great san pablo whitecaps, and strangled by the hollow tide-rip waves which flung themselves into my eyes, nose, and mouth. then the strange sucks would grip my legs and drag me under, to spout me up in some fierce boiling, where, even as i tried to catch my breath, a great whitecap would crash down upon my head. it was impossible to survive any length of time. i was breathing more water than air, and drowning all the time. my senses began to leave me, my head to whirl around. i struggled on, spasmodically, instinctively, and was barely half conscious when i felt myself caught by the shoulders and hauled over the gunwale of a boat. for some time i lay across a seat where i had been flung, face downward, and with the water running out of my mouth. after a while, still weak and faint, i turned around to see who was my rescuer. and there, in the stern, sheet in one hand and tiller in the other, grinning and nodding good-naturedly, sat demetrios contos. he had intended to leave me to drown,--he said so afterward,--but his better self had fought the battle, conquered, and sent him back to me. "you all-a right?" he asked. i managed to shape a "yes" on my lips, though i could not yet speak. "you sail-a de boat verr-a good-a," he said. "so good-a as a man." a compliment from demetrios contos was a compliment indeed, and i keenly appreciated it, though i could only nod my head in acknowledgment. we held no more conversation, for i was busy recovering and he was busy with the boat. he ran in to the wharf at vallejo, made the boat fast, and helped me out. then it was, as we both stood on the wharf, that charley stepped out from behind a net-rack and put his hand on demetrios contos's arm. "he saved my life, charley," i protested; "and i don't think he ought to be arrested." a puzzled expression came into charley's face, which cleared immediately after, in a way it had when he made up his mind. "i can't help it, lad," he said kindly. "i can't go back on my duty, and it's plain duty to arrest him. to-day is sunday; there are two salmon in his boat which he caught to-day. what else can i do?" "but he saved my life," i persisted, unable to make any other argument. [illustration: "there, in the stern, sat demetrios contos."] demetrios contos's face went black with rage when he learned charley's judgment. he had a sense of being unfairly treated. the better part of his nature had triumphed, he had performed a generous act and saved a helpless enemy, and in return the enemy was taking him to jail. charley and i were out of sorts with each other when we went back to benicia. i stood for the spirit of the law and not the letter; but by the letter charley made his stand. as far as he could see, there was nothing else for him to do. the law said distinctly that no salmon should be caught on sunday. he was a patrolman, and it was his duty to enforce that law. that was all there was to it. he had done his duty, and his conscience was clear. nevertheless, the whole thing seemed unjust to me, and i felt very sorry for demetrios contos. two days later we went down to vallejo to the trial. i had to go along as a witness, and it was the most hateful task that i ever performed in my life when i testified on the witness stand to seeing demetrios catch the two salmon charley had captured him with. demetrios had engaged a lawyer, but his case was hopeless. the jury was out only fifteen minutes, and returned a verdict of guilty. the judge sentenced demetrios to pay a fine of one hundred dollars or go to jail for fifty days. charley stepped up to the clerk of the court. "i want to pay that fine," he said, at the same time placing five twenty-dollar gold pieces on the desk. "it--it was the only way out of it, lad," he stammered, turning to me. the moisture rushed into my eyes as i seized his hand. "i want to pay--" i began. "to pay your half?" he interrupted. "i certainly shall expect you to pay it." in the meantime demetrios had been informed by his lawyer that his fee likewise had been paid by charley. demetrios came over to shake charley's hand, and all his warm southern blood flamed in his face. then, not to be outdone in generosity, he insisted on paying his fine and lawyer's fee himself, and flew half-way into a passion because charley refused to let him. more than anything else we ever did, i think, this action of charley's impressed upon the fishermen the deeper significance of the law. also charley was raised high in their esteem, while i came in for a little share of praise as a boy who knew how to sail a boat. demetrios contos not only never broke the law again, but he became a very good friend of ours, and on more than one occasion he ran up to benicia to have a gossip with us. vii yellow handkerchief "i'm not wanting to dictate to you, lad," charley said; "but i'm very much against your making a last raid. you've gone safely through rough times with rough men, and it would be a shame to have something happen to you at the very end." "but how can i get out of making a last raid?" i demanded, with the cocksureness of youth. "there always has to be a last, you know, to anything." charley crossed his legs, leaned back, and considered the problem. "very true. but why not call the capture of demetrios contos the last? you're back from it safe and sound and hearty, for all your good wetting, and--and--" his voice broke and he could not speak for a moment. "and i could never forgive myself if anything happened to you now." i laughed at charley's fears while i gave in to the claims of his affection, and agreed to consider the last raid already performed. we had been together for two years, and now i was leaving the fish patrol in order to go back and finish my education. i had earned and saved money to put me through three years at the high school, and though the beginning of the term was several months away, i intended doing a lot of studying for the entrance examinations. my belongings were packed snugly in a sea-chest, and i was all ready to buy my ticket and ride down on the train to oakland, when neil partington arrived in benicia. the _reindeer_ was needed immediately for work far down on the lower bay, and neil said he intended to run straight for oakland. as that was his home and as i was to live with his family while going to school, he saw no reason, he said, why i should not put my chest aboard and come along. so the chest went aboard, and in the middle of the afternoon we hoisted the _reindeer's_ big mainsail and cast off. it was tantalizing fall weather. the sea-breeze, which had blown steadily all summer, was gone, and in its place were capricious winds and murky skies which made the time of arriving anywhere extremely problematical. we started on the first of the ebb, and as we slipped down the carquinez straits, i looked my last for some time upon benicia and the bight at turner's shipyard, where we had besieged the _lancashire queen_, and had captured big alec, the king of the greeks. and at the mouth of the straits i looked with not a little interest upon the spot where a few days before i should have drowned but for the good that was in the nature of demetrios contos. a great wall of fog advanced across san pablo bay to meet us, and in a few minutes the _reindeer_ was running blindly through the damp obscurity. charley, who was steering, seemed to have an instinct for that kind of work. how he did it, he himself confessed that he did not know; but he had a way of calculating winds, currents, distance, time, drift, and sailing speed that was truly marvellous. "it looks as though it were lifting," neil partington said, a couple of hours after we had entered the fog. "where do you say we are, charley?" charley looked at his watch. "six o'clock, and three hours more of ebb," he remarked casually. "but where do you say we are?" neil insisted. charley pondered a moment, and then answered, "the tide has edged us over a bit out of our course, but if the fog lifts right now, as it is going to lift, you'll find we're not more than a thousand miles off mcnear's landing." "you might be a little more definite by a few miles, anyway," neil grumbled, showing by his tone that he disagreed. "all right, then," charley said, conclusively, "not less than a quarter of a mile, not more than a half." the wind freshened with a couple of little puffs, and the fog thinned perceptibly. "mcnear's is right off there," charley said, pointing directly into the fog on our weather beam. the three of us were peering intently in that direction, when the _reindeer_ struck with a dull crash and came to a standstill. we ran forward, and found her bowsprit entangled in the tanned rigging of a short, chunky mast. she had collided, head on, with a chinese junk lying at anchor. at the moment we arrived forward, five chinese, like so many bees, came swarming out of the little 'tween-decks cabin, the sleep still in their eyes. leading them came a big, muscular man, conspicuous for his pock-marked face and the yellow silk handkerchief swathed about his head. it was yellow handkerchief, the chinaman whom we had arrested for illegal shrimp-fishing the year before, and who, at that time, had nearly sunk the _reindeer_, as he had nearly sunk it now by violating the rules of navigation. "what d'ye mean, you yellow-faced heathen, lying here in a fairway without a horn a-going?" charley cried hotly. "mean?" neil calmly answered. "just take a look--that's what he means." our eyes followed the direction indicated by neil's finger, and we saw the open amid-ships of the junk, half filled, as we found on closer examination, with fresh-caught shrimps. mingled with the shrimps were myriads of small fish, from a quarter of an inch upwards in size. yellow handkerchief had lifted the trap-net at high-water slack, and, taking advantage of the concealment offered by the fog, had boldly been lying by, waiting to lift the net again at low-water slack. "well," neil hummed and hawed, "in all my varied and extensive experience as a fish patrolman, i must say this is the easiest capture i ever made. what'll we do with them, charley?" "tow the junk into san rafael, of course," came the answer. charley turned to me. "you stand by the junk, lad, and i'll pass you a towing line. if the wind doesn't fail us, we'll make the creek before the tide gets too low, sleep at san rafael, and arrive in oakland to-morrow by midday." so saying, charley and neil returned to the _reindeer_ and got under way, the junk towing astern. i went aft and took charge of the prize, steering by means of an antiquated tiller and a rudder with large, diamond-shaped holes, through which the water rushed back and forth. by now the last of the fog had vanished, and charley's estimate of our position was confirmed by the sight of mcnear's landing a short half-mile away. following along the west shore, we rounded point pedro in plain view of the chinese shrimp villages, and a great to-do was raised when they saw one of their junks towing behind the familiar fish patrol sloop. the wind, coming off the land, was rather puffy and uncertain, and it would have been more to our advantage had it been stronger. san rafael creek, up which we had to go to reach the town, and turn over our prisoners to the authorities, ran through wide-stretching marshes, and was difficult to navigate on a falling tide, while at low tide it was impossible to navigate at all. so, with the tide already half-ebbed, it was necessary for us to make time. this the heavy junk prevented lumbering along behind and holding the _reindeer_ back by just so much dead weight. "tell those coolies to get up that sail" charley finally called to me. "we don't want to hang up on the mud flats for the rest of the night." i repeated the order to yellow handkerchief, who mumbled it huskily to his men. he was suffering from a bad cold, which doubled him up in convulsive coughing spells and made his eyes heavy and bloodshot. this made him more evil-looking than ever, and when he glared viciously at me, i remembered with a shiver the close shave i had had with him at the time of his previous arrest. his crew sullenly tailed on to the halyards, and the strange, outlandish sail, lateen in rig and dyed a warm brown, rose in the air. we were sailing on the wind, and when yellow handkerchief flattened down the sheet the junk forged ahead and the tow-line went slack. fast as the _reindeer_ could sail, the junk outsailed her; and to avoid running her down i hauled a little closer on the wind. but the junk likewise outpointed, and in a couple of minutes i was abreast of the _reindeer_ and to windward. the tow-line had now tautened, at right angles to the two boats and the predicament was laughable. "cast off!" i shouted. charley hesitated. "it's all right," i added. "nothing can happen. we'll make the creek on this tack, and you'll be right behind me all the way up to san rafael." at this charley cast off, and yellow handkerchief sent one of his men forward to haul in the line. in the gathering darkness i could just make out the mouth of san rafael creek, and by the time we entered it i could barely see its banks. the _reindeer_ was fully five minutes astern, and we continued to leave her astern as we beat up the narrow, winding channel. with charley behind us, it seemed i had little to fear from my five prisoners; but the darkness prevented my keeping a sharp eye on them, so i transferred my revolver from my trousers pocket to the side pocket of my coat, where i could more quickly put my hand on it. yellow handkerchief was the one i feared, and that he knew it and made use of it, subsequent events will show. he was sitting a few feet away from me, on what then happened to be the weather side of the junk. i could scarcely see the outlines of his form, but i soon became convinced that he was slowly, very slowly, edging closer to me. i watched him carefully. steering with my left hand, i slipped my right into my pocket and got hold of the revolver. i saw him shift along for a couple of inches, and i was just about to order him back--the words were trembling on the tip of my tongue--when i was struck with great force by a heavy figure that had leaped through the air upon me from the lee side. it was one of the crew. he pinioned my right arm so that i could not withdraw my hand from my pocket, and at the same time clapped his other hand over my mouth. of course, i could have struggled away from him and freed my hand or gotten my mouth clear so that i might cry an alarm, but in a trice yellow handkerchief was on top of me. i struggled around to no purpose in the bottom of the junk, while my legs and arms were tied and my mouth securely bound in what i afterward found out to be a cotton shirt. then i was left lying in the bottom. yellow handkerchief took the tiller, issuing his orders in whispers; and from our position at the time, and from the alteration of the sail, which i could dimly make out above me as a blot against the stars, i knew the junk was being headed into the mouth of a small slough which emptied at that point into san rafael creek. in a couple of minutes we ran softly alongside the bank, and the sail was silently lowered. the chinese kept very quiet. yellow handkerchief sat down in the bottom alongside of me, and i could feel him straining to repress his raspy, hacking cough. possibly seven or eight minutes later i heard charley's voice as the _reindeer_ went past the mouth of the slough. "i can't tell you how relieved i am," i could plainly hear him saying to neil, "that the lad has finished with the fish patrol without accident." here neil said something which i could not catch, and then charley's voice went on: "the youngster takes naturally to the water, and if, when he finishes high school, he takes a course in navigation and goes deep sea, i see no reason why he shouldn't rise to be master of the finest and biggest ship afloat." it was all very flattering to me, but lying there, bound and gagged by my own prisoners, with the voices growing faint and fainter as the _reindeer_ slipped on through the darkness toward san rafael, i must say i was not in quite the proper situation to enjoy my smiling future. with the _reindeer_ went my last hope. what was to happen next i could not imagine, for the chinese were a different race from mine, and from what i knew i was confident that fair play was no part of their make-up. after waiting a few minutes longer, the crew hoisted the lateen sail, and yellow handkerchief steered down toward the mouth of san rafael creek. the tide was getting lower, and he had difficulty in escaping the mud-banks. i was hoping he would run aground, but he succeeded in making the bay without accident. as we passed out of the creek a noisy discussion arose, which i knew related to me. yellow handkerchief was vehement, but the other four as vehemently opposed him. it was very evident that he advocated doing away with me and they were afraid of the consequences. i was familiar enough with the chinese character to know that fear alone restrained them. but what plan they offered in place of yellow handkerchief's murderous one, i could not make out. my feelings, as my fate hung in the balance, may be guessed. the discussion developed into a quarrel, in the midst of which yellow handkerchief unshipped the heavy tiller and sprang toward me. but his four companions threw themselves between, and a clumsy struggle took place for possession of the tiller. in the end yellow handkerchief was over-come, and sullenly returned to the steering, while they soundly berated him for his rashness. not long after, the sail was run down and the junk slowly urged forward by means of the sweeps. i felt it ground gently on the soft mud. three of the chinese--they all wore long sea-boots--got over the side, and the other two passed me across the rail. with yellow handkerchief at my legs and his two companions at my shoulders, they began to flounder along through the mud. after some time their feet struck firmer footing, and i knew they were carrying me up some beach. the location of this beach was not doubtful in my mind. it could be none other than one of the marin islands, a group of rocky islets which lay off the marin county shore. when they reached the firm sand that marked high tide, i was dropped, and none too gently. yellow handkerchief kicked me spitefully in the ribs, and then the trio floundered back through the mud to the junk. a moment later i heard the sail go up and slat in the wind as they drew in the sheet. then silence fell, and i was left to my own devices for getting free. i remembered having seen tricksters writhe and squirm out of ropes with which they were bound, but though i writhed and squirmed like a good fellow, the knots remained as hard as ever, and there was no appreciable slack. in the course of my squirming, however, i rolled over upon a heap of clam-shells--the remains, evidently, of some yachting party's clam-bake. this gave me an idea. my hands were tied behind my back; and, clutching a shell in them, i rolled over and over, up the beach, till i came to the rocks i knew to be there. rolling about and searching, i finally discovered a narrow crevice, into which i shoved the shell. the edge of it was sharp, and across the sharp edge i proceeded to saw the rope that bound my wrists. the edge of the shell was also brittle, and i broke it by bearing too heavily upon it. then i rolled back to the heap and returned with as many shells as i could carry in both hands. i broke many shells, cut my hands a number of times, and got cramps in my legs from my strained position and my exertions. while i was suffering from the cramps, and resting, i heard the familiar halloo drift across the water. it was charley, searching for me. the gag in my mouth prevented me from replying, and i could only lie there, helplessly fuming, while he rowed past the island and his voice slowly lost itself in the distance. i returned to the sawing process, and at the end of half an hour succeeded in severing the rope. the rest was easy. my hands once free, it was a matter of minutes to loosen my legs and to take the gag out of my mouth. i ran around the island to make sure it _was_ an island and not by chance a portion of the mainland. an island it certainly was, one of the marin group, fringed with a sandy beach and surrounded by a sea of mud. nothing remained but to wait till daylight and to keep warm; for it was a cold, raw night for california, with just enough wind to pierce the skin and cause one to shiver. to keep up the circulation, i ran around the island a dozen times or so, and clambered across its rocky backbone as many times more--all of which was of greater service to me, as i afterward discovered, than merely to warm me up. in the midst of this exercise i wondered if i had lost anything out of my pockets while rolling over and over in the sand. a search showed the absence of my revolver and pocket-knife. the first yellow handkerchief had taken; but the knife had been lost in the sand. i was hunting for it when the sound of rowlocks came to my ears. at first, of course, i thought of charley; but on second thought i knew charley would be calling out as he rowed along. a sudden premonition of danger seized me. the marin islands are lonely places; chance visitors in the dead of night are hardly to be expected. what if it were yellow handkerchief? the sound made by the rowlocks grew more distinct. i crouched in the sand and listened intently. the boat, which i judged a small skiff from the quick stroke of the oars, was landing in the mud about fifty yards up the beach. i heard a raspy, hacking cough, and my heart stood still. it was yellow handkerchief. not to be robbed of his revenge by his more cautious companions, he had stolen away from the village and come back alone. i did some swift thinking. i was unarmed and helpless on a tiny islet, and a yellow barbarian, whom i had reason to fear, was coming after me. any place was safer than the island, and i turned immediately to the water, or rather to the mud. as he began to flounder ashore through the mud. i started to flounder out into it, going over the same course which the chinese had taken in landing me and in returning to the junk. yellow handkerchief, believing me to be lying tightly bound, exercised no care, but came ashore noisily. this helped me, for, under the shield of his noise and making no more myself than necessary, i managed to cover fifty feet by the time he had made the beach. here i lay down in the mud. it was cold and clammy, and made me shiver, but i did not care to stand up and run the risk of being discovered by his sharp eyes. he walked down the beach straight to where he had left me lying, and i had a fleeting feeling of regret at not being able to see his surprise when he did not find me. but it was a very fleeting regret, for my teeth were chattering with the cold. what his movements were after that i had largely to deduce from the facts of the situation, for i could scarcely see him in the dim starlight. but i was sure that the first thing he did was to make the circuit of the beach to learn if landings had been made by other boats. this he would have known at once by the tracks through the mud. convinced that no boat had removed me from the island, he next started to find out what had become of me. beginning at the pile of clam-shells, he lighted matches to trace my tracks in the sand. at such times i could see his villanous face plainly, and, when the sulphur from the matches irritated his lungs, between the raspy cough that followed and the clammy mud in which i was lying, i confess i shivered harder than ever. the multiplicity of my footprints puzzled him. then the idea that i might be out in the mud must have struck him, for he waded out a few yards in my direction, and, stooping, with his eyes searched the dim surface long and carefully. he could not have been more than fifteen feet from me, and had he lighted a match he would surely have discovered me. he returned to the beach and clambered about over the rocky backbone, again hunting for me with lighted matches. the closeness of the shore impelled me to further flight. not daring to wade upright, on account of the noise made by floundering and by the suck of the mud, i remained lying down in the mud and propelled myself over its surface by means of my hands. still keeping the trail made by the chinese in going from and to the junk, i held on until i had reached the water. into this i waded to a depth of three feet, and then i turned off to the side on a line parallel with the beach. the thought came to me of going toward yellow handkerchief's skiff and escaping in it, but at that very moment he returned to the beach, and, as though fearing the very thing i had in mind, he slushed out through the mud to assure himself that the skiff was safe. this turned me in the opposite direction. half swimming, half wading, with my head just out of water and avoiding splashing. i succeeded in putting about a hundred feet between myself and the spot ashore where the chinese had begun to wade ashore from the junk. i drew myself out on the mud and remained lying flat. again yellow handkerchief returned to the beach and made a search of the island, and again he returned to the heap of clam-shells. i knew what was running in his mind as well as he did himself. no one could leave or land without making tracks in the mud. the only tracks to be seen were those leading from his skiff and from where the junk had been. i was not on the island. i must have left it by one or other of those two tracks. he had just been over the one to his skiff, and was certain i had not left that way. therefore i could have left the island only by going over the tracks of the junk landing. this he proceeded to verify by wading out over them himself, lighting matches as he came along. when he arrived at the point where i had first lain, i knew, by the matches he burned and the time he took, that he had discovered the marks left by my body. these he followed straight to the water and into it, but in three feet of water he could no longer see them. on the other hand, as the tide was still falling, he could easily make out the impression made by the junk's bow, and could have likewise made out the impression of any other boat if it had landed at that particular spot. but there was no such mark; and i knew that he was absolutely convinced that i was hiding somewhere in the mud. but to hunt on a dark night for a boy in a sea of mud would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack, and he did not attempt it. instead he went back to the beach and prowled around for some time. i was hoping he would give up and go, for by this time i was suffering severely from the cold. at last he waded out to his skiff and rowed away. what if this departure of yellow handkerchief's were a sham? what if he had done it merely to entice me ashore? the more i thought of it the more certain i became that he had made a little too much noise with his oars as he rowed away. so i remained, lying in the mud and shivering. i shivered till the muscles of the small of my back ached and pained me as badly as the cold, and i had need of all my self-control to force myself to remain in my miserable situation. it was well that i did, however, for, possibly an hour later, i thought i could make out something moving on the beach. i watched intently, but my ears were rewarded first, by a raspy cough i knew only too well. yellow handkerchief had sneaked back, landed on the other side of the island, and crept around to surprise me if i had returned. after that, though hours passed without sign of him, i was afraid to return to the island at all. on the other hand, i was equally afraid that i should die of the exposure i was undergoing. i had never dreamed one could suffer so. i grew so cold and numb, finally, that i ceased to shiver. but my muscles and bones began to ache in a way that was agony. the tide had long since begun to rise, and, foot by foot, it drove me in toward the beach. high water came at three o'clock, and at three o'clock i drew myself up on the beach, more dead than alive, and too helpless to have offered any resistence had yellow handkerchief swooped down upon me. but no yellow handkerchief appeared. he had given up and gone back to point pedro. nevertheless, i was in a deplorable, not to say a dangerous, condition. i could not stand upon my feet, much less walk. my clammy, muddy, garments clung to me like sheets of ice. i thought i should never get them off. so numb and lifeless were my fingers, and so weak was i, that it seemed to take an hour to get off my shoes. i had not the strength to break the porpoise-hide laces, and the knots defied me. i repeatedly beat my hands upon the rocks to get some sort of life into them. sometimes i felt sure i was going to die. but in the end,--after several centuries, it seemed to me,--i got off the last of my clothes. the water was now close at hand, and i crawled painfully into it and washed the mud from my naked body. still, i could not get on my feet and walk and i was afraid to lie still. nothing remained but to crawl weakly, like a snail, and at the cost of constant pain, up and down the island. i kept this up as along as possible, but as the east paled with the coming of dawn i began to succumb. the sky grew rosy-red, and the golden rim of the sun, showing above the horizon, found me lying helpless and motionless among the clam-shells. as in a dream, i saw the familiar mainsail of the _reindeer_ as she slipped out of san rafael creek on a light puff of morning air. this dream was very much broken. there are intervals i can never recollect on looking back over it. three things, however, i distinctly remember: the first sight of the _reindeer's_ mainsail; her lying at anchor a few hundred feet away and a small boat leaving her side; and the cabin stove roaring red-hot, myself swathed all over with blankets, except on the chest and shoulders, which charley was pounding and mauling unmercifully, and my mouth and throat burning with the coffee which neil partington was pouring down a trifle too hot. but burn or no burn, i tell you it felt good. by the time we arrived in oakland i was as limber and strong as ever,--though charley and neil partington were afraid i was going to have pneumonia, and mrs. partington, for my first six months of school, kept an anxious eye upon me to discover the first symptoms of consumption. time flies. it seems but yesterday that i was a lad of sixteen on the fish patrol. yet i know that i arrived this very morning from china, with a quick passage to my credit, and master of the barkentine _harvester_. and i know that to-morrow morning i shall run over to oakland to see neil partington and his wife and family, and later on up to benicia to see charley le grant and talk over old times. no; i shall not go to benicia, now that i think about it. i expect to be a highly interested party to a wedding, shortly to take place. her name is alice partington, and, since charley has promised to be best man, he will have to come down to oakland instead. the lively poll, by r.m. ballantyne. ________________________________________________________________________ the scene opens with one of the many north sea fishing fleets at work on its grounds. one of the boats is commanded by a man who is called the admiral of the fleet. he commands the other boats as to when and where they are to start working with their trawl nets, for if such control were not imposed there would be chaos, with a hundred or more boats crossing each other's paths and consequently entangling their nets. after a night's fishing the fish are gutted, filleted, and boxed. a steam vessel approaches, and takes their catches, so that they can be landed at the nearest fishing port, such as yarmouth and gorleston, and rushed to london and other great cities, to be fresh on tables the following day. but there is another type of vessel that trades with the "lively poll" and other ships of that fishing fleet--the dutch "coper", bringing goods to trade for fish, including tobacco and schnapps, for the demon drink is the ruination of many a good man. that is what this book is really all about, the ruination of some men, and the salvation of others, for even out at sea there are missionaries working to try and save souls. ________________________________________________________________________ the lively poll, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. the fleet. manx bradley was an admiral--"admiral of the fleet"--though it must be admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so exalted. with rough pilot coat and sou'-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy, rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. nevertheless manx was a real admiral--as real as nelson, and much harder worked. his fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one fine autumn evening on the north sea. the vessels cruised round each other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of "touch." nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admiral's vessel, for it was literally the "flagship," being distinguishable only by a small flag attached to its fore stay. the fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. a fine smart "fishing breeze" was blowing. the setting sun sparkled on the wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning. with the quiet air of an amiable despot manx nodded his venerable head. up went the signal, and in a few minutes the fleet was reduced to order. every smack swept round into position, and, bending over on the same tack, they all rushed like a shoal of startled minnows, away in the same direction--the direction signalled by the admiral. another signal from our venerable despot sent between one and two hundred trawl-nets down to the bottom of the sea, nets that were strong enough to haul up tons of fish, and rocks, and wreckage, and rubbish, with fifty-feet beams, like young masts, with iron enough in bands and chains to sink them, and so arranged that the beams were raised a few feet off the ground, thus keeping the mouths of the great nets open, while cables many fathoms in length held the gears to their respective vessels. so the north sea fishermen began the night's work--the _nancy_, the _coquette_, the _rattler_, the _truant_, the _faith_, the _playfellow_, the _cherub_, and all the rest of them. of course, although the breeze was fresh, they went along slowly, because of the ponderous tails that they had to draw. do you ask, reader, why all this order? why this despotic admiral, and all this unity of action? why not "every man for himself"? let me reply by asking you to think for a moment. wind blowing in one direction, perhaps you are aware, does not necessarily imply vessels sailing in the same direction. with variation of courses possible, nearly two hundred tails out astern, and no unity of action, there would arise the certainty of varied and striking incident. the _nancy_ would go crashing into the bows of the _coquette_, the bowsprit of the _rallier_ would stir up the cabin of the _truant_, the tail of the _faith_ would get entangled with that of the _cherub_, and both might hook on to the tail of the _playfellow_; in short, the awful result would be wreck and wretchedness on the north sea, howling despair in the markets of columbia and billingsgate, and no fish for breakfast in the great metropolis. there is reason for most things--specially good reason for the laws that regulate the fisheries of the north sea, the fleets of which are over twelve in number, and the floating population over twelve thousand men and boys. for several hours this shoal of vessels, with full sails and twinkling lights, like a moving city on the deep, continued to tug and plunge along over the "banks" of the german ocean, to the satisfaction of the fishermen, and the surprise no doubt of the fish. about midnight the admiral again signalled, by rocket and flares, "haul up," and immediately, with capstan, bar, and steam, the obedient crews began to coil in their tails. it is not our intention to trouble the reader with a minute account of this process or the grand result, but, turning to a particular smack, we solicit attention to that. she is much like the others in size and rig. her name is the _lively poll_. stephen lockley is her skipper, as fine a young fisherman as one could wish to see--tall, handsome, free, hearty, and powerful. but indeed all deep-sea fishermen possess the last quality. they would be useless if not physically strong. many a samson and hercules is to be found in the north sea fleets. "no better nursery or training-school in time of war," they say. that may be true, but it is pleasanter to think of them as a training-school for times of peace. the night was very dark. black clouds overspread the sky, so that no light save the dim rays of a lantern cheered the men as they went tramp, tramp, round the capstan, slowly coiling in the trawl-warp. sheets of spray sometimes burst over the side and drenched them, but they cared nothing for that, being pretty well protected by oilskins, sou'-westers, and sea-boots. straining and striving, sometimes gaining an inch or two, sometimes a yard or so, while the smack plunged and kicked, the contest seemed like a doubtful one between _vis inertiae_ and the human will. two hours and a half it lasted, until the great trawl-beam came to the surface, and was got up on the vessel's side, after which these indomitable men proceeded to claw up the huge net with their fingers, straining and heaving with might and main. "yo, ho!" cried the skipper, "heave her in, boys!" "hoy!" growled peter jay, the mate, giving a tug that should have torn the net to pieces--but didn't! "looks like as if we'd got hold of a lump o' wreck," gasped bob lumsden, the smack's boy, who was also the smack's cook. "no, no, lumpy," remarked david duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, "it ain't a wreck, it's a mermaid. i've bin told they weigh over six ton when young. look out when she comes aboard--she'll bite." "i do believe it's old neptune himself," said jim freeman, another of the "hands." "there's his head; an' something like his pitchfork." "it does feel heavier than i ever knowed it afore," remarked fred martin. "that's all along of your bein' ill, fred," said the mate. "it may be so," returned martin, "for i do feel queer, an' a'most as weak as a baby. come heave away!" it was indeed a huge mass of wreck entangled with sea-weed which had rendered the net so heavy on that occasion, but there was also a satisfactory mass of fish in the "cod-end," or bag, at the extremity of the net, for, when, by the aid of the winch, this cod-end was finally got inboard, and the cord fastening the bottom of it was untied, fish of all kinds gushed over the wet decks in a living cataract. there were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much conversation, for heavy work had still to be done--done, too, in the dark. turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square boxes called "trunks," so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next morning. the net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch before daybreak. now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing a north sea hornpipe under one's feet. among the dangers are two which merit notice. the one is the fisherman's liability, while working among the "ruck," to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a skate. either accident may be slight or it may be severe. a sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning and packing work told that something had happened. "there goes martin," growled joe stubley; "you can always tell when it's him, 'cause he don't curse an' swear." stubley--or stubby, as his mates called him--did not intend this for a compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. being an irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed religion were hypocritical and silly. manliness, in poor jo's mind, consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general godlessness. with the exception of fred martin, the rest of the crew of the _lively poll_ resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very different in character,--lockley, the skipper being genial; peter jay, the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; duffy, jovial and funny; freeman, kindly, though reckless; and bob, the boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. they all liked martin, however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached little. "what's wrong?" asked lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for lights ahead. "only a bone into my left hand," replied martin, going on with his somewhat dirty labours. "well that it's no worse, boy," observed freeman, "for we've got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky short-blue fleet." "that's true, jim," responded martin; "i wish we had a gospel smack with our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies." "there you go," growled stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with a flap of indignation. "a feller can't mention the name o' them mission craft without rousin' you up to some o' your hypocritical chaff. for my part, if it wasn't for the medicine-chest and the mittens, i think we'd be better by a long way without gospel ships, as ye call 'em. why, what good 'ave they done the short-blues? i'm sure _we_ doesn't want churches, or prayin', or psalm-singin' or book--" "speak for yourself, jo," interrupted puffy. "although your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which nothin' a'most can pass either from books or anything else, you mustn't think we've bin all built on the same lines. i likes a good book myself, an', though i don't care about prayin' or psalm-singin', seein' i don't understand 'em, i say `good luck' to the mission smacks, if it was for nothin' else than the books, an' doctor stuff, an' mitts what the shoregoin' ladies--bless their hearts!--is so fond o' sendin' to us." "ay, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say they're a-goin' to send to us," added freeman. "p'r'aps they'll send us cheap grog at last," said puffy, with a laugh. "they'll hardly do that," remarked martin; "for it's to try an' keep us from goin' for our baccy to the _copers_ that they've started this new plan." "i wish 'em success," said lockley, in a serious tone. and there was good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a powerful, almost irresistible, temptation. when the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to snatch a few hours' repose. wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or other. kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats and sou'-westers, they tumbled into their narrow "bunks" and fell asleep almost without winking. there was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night. fred martin was soon awakened by the pain of his wound, which had begun to inflame, and by a feeling of giddiness and intense uneasiness with which he had been troubled for several days past. turning out at last, he sat down in front of the little iron stove that served to cook food as well as to warm the cabin, and, gazing into the embers, began to meditate on his strangely uncomfortable sensations. "hallo, martin, anything wrong?" asked the mate, who descended at that moment to relight his pipe. "i believe there is, mate. i never felt like this afore. i've fowt against it till i can hardly stand. i feel as if i was goin' to knock under altogether. this hand, too, seems gittin' bad. i do think my blood must be poisoned, or somethin' o' that sort. you know i don't easily give in, but when a feller feels as if little red-hot wires was twistin' about inside of him, an' sees things goin' round as if he was drunk, why--" "why, it's time to think of goin' home," interrupted jay, with a laugh. "but let's have a look at you, fred. well, there does seem to be some o' your riggin' slack. have you ever had the measles?" "not as i knows of." "looks like it," said the mate, lighting his pipe. "p'r'aps it'll be as well to send you into dock to refit. you'd better turn in again, anyhow, for a snooze would do you good." fred martin acted on this advice, while jay returned to the deck; but it was evident that the snooze was not to be had, for he continued to turn and toss uneasily, and to wonder what was wrong with him, as strong healthy men are rather apt to do when suddenly seized with sickness. at grey dawn the admiral signalled again. the order was to haul up the nets, which had been scraping the bottom of the sea since midnight, and the whole fleet set to work without delay. martin turned out with the rest, and tried to defy sickness for a time, but it would not do. the strong man was obliged to succumb to a stronger than he--not, however, until he had assisted as best as he could in hauling up the trawl. this second haul of the gear of the _lively poll_ illustrated one of those mishaps, to which all deep-sea trawlers are liable, and which are of frequent occurrence. a piece of wreck or a lost anchor, or something, had caught the net, and torn it badly, so that when it reached the surface all the fish had escaped. "a night's work for nothing!" exclaimed stephen lockley, with an oath. "_might_ have been worse," suggested martin. by that time it was broad daylight, and as they had no fish to pack, the crew busied themselves in removing the torn net from the beam, and fitting on a new one. at the same time the crews of the other smacks secured their various and varied hauls, cleaned, packed, and got ready for delivery. the smoke of the steam-carrier was seen on the horizon early in the forenoon, and all the vessels of the fleet made for her, as chickens make for their mother in times of danger. we may not pause here to describe the picturesque confusion that ensued--the arriving, congregating, tacking, crossing, and re-crossing of smacks; the launching of little boats, and loading them with "trunks;" the concentration of these round the steamer like minnows round a whale; the shipping of the cargo, and the tremendous hurry and energy displayed in the desire to do it quickly, and get the fish fresh to market. suffice it to say that in less than four hours the steamer was loaded, and fred martin, fever-stricken and with a highly inflamed hand and arm, started on a thirty-six hours' voyage to london. then the fleet sheered off and fell into order, the admiral issued his instructions, and away they all went again to continue the hard, unvarying round of hauling and toiling and moiling, in heat and cold, wet and dry, with nothing to lighten the life or cheer the heart save a game at "crib" or "all fives," or a visit to the _coper_, that terrible curse of the north sea. chapter two. accidents afloat and incidents ashore. now, although it is an undoubted fact that the skippers of the north sea trawling smacks are first-rate seamen, it is an equally certain fact that strong drink can render them unfit for duty. one of the skippers was, if we may say so, unmanned by drink at the time the fleet sheered off from the steam-carrier, as stated in the last chapter. he was named georgie fox--better known in the fleet as groggy fox. unfortunately for himself as well as others, skipper fox had paid a visit to one of the _copers_ the day before for the purpose of laying in a stock of tobacco, which was sold by the skipper of the floating grog-shop at 1 shilling 6 pence a pound. of course fox had been treated to a glass of fiery spirits, and had thereafter been induced to purchase a quantity of the same. he had continued to tipple until night, when he retired in a fuddled state to rest. on rising he tippled again, and went on tippling till his fish were put on board the steamer. then he took the helm of his vessel, and stood with legs very wide apart, an owlish gaze in his eyes, and a look of amazing solemnity on his visage. when a fleet sheers off from a steam-carrier after delivery of cargo, the sea around is usually very much crowded with vessels, and as these cross and re-cross or run past or alongside of each other before finally settling into the appointed course, there is a good deal of hearty recognition--shouting, questioning, tossing up of arms, and expressions of goodwill--among friends. several men hailed and saluted fox as his smack, the _cormorant_, went by, but he took no notice except with an idiotic wink of both eyes. "he's bin to the _coper_," remarked puffy, as the _cormorant_ crossed the bow of the _lively poll_. "i say, lumpy, come here," he added, as bob lumsden came on deck. "have 'ee got any o' that coffee left?" "no, not a drop. i gave the last o't to fred martin just as he was goin' away." "poor fred!" said puffy. "he's in for suthin' stiff, i doubt, measles or mulligrumps, if not wuss." "a great pity," remarked peter jay, who stood at the helm, "that martin couldn't hold out a week longer when our turn comes round to run for yarmouth." "it's well we got him shipped off to-day," said lockley. "that hand of his would have made him useless before another day was out. it's a long time for a man in his state to be without help, that run up to lun'on. port your helm a bit, jay. is it the _cormorant_ that's yawin' about there in that fashion?" "ay, it's the _cormorant_," replied jay. "i seed her just now a'most run foul o' the _butterfly_." "she'll be foul of us. hi! look out!" cried lockley, becoming excited, as he saw the _cormorant_ change her course suddenly, without apparent reason, and bear straight down upon his vessel. there was, indeed, no reason for the strange movements of the smack in question, except that there was at the helm a man who had rendered his reason incapable of action. with dull, fishy eyes, that stared idiotically at nothing, his hand on the tiller, and his mind asleep, georgie fox stood on the deck of the _cormorant_ steering. "starboard a bit, jay," said lockley, with an anxious look, "she'll barely clear us." as he spoke, fox moved his helm slightly. it changed the course of his vessel only a little, but that little sufficed to send the cutwater of the _cormorant_ straight into the port bows of the _lively poll_ with a tremendous crash, for a smart breeze was blowing at the time. the bulwarks were cut down to the deck, and, as the _cormorant_ recoiled and again surged ahead, the bowsprit was carried away, and part of the topmast brought down. deep and fierce was the growl that burst from lockley's lips at this disaster, but that did not mend matters. the result was that the _lively poll_ had to quit the fleet a week before her time of eight weeks afloat was up, and run to yarmouth for repairs. next day, however, it fell calm, and several days elapsed before she finally made her port. meanwhile fred martin reached london, with his feverish complaint greatly aggravated, and his undressed wound much worse. in london he was detained some hours by his employers, and then sent on to yarmouth, which he reached late in the afternoon, and ultimately in a state of great suffering and exhaustion, made his way to gorleston, where his mother lived. with his mind in a species of wild whirl, and acute pains darting through his wounded hand and arm, he wended his way slowly along the road that led to his mother's house. perhaps we should style it her attic, for she could claim only part of the house in which she dwelt. from a quaint gable window of this abode she had a view of the sea over the houses in front. part of fred's route lay along the banks of the yare, not far from its mouth. at a spot where there were many old anchors and cables, old and new trawl-beams, and sundry other seafaring rusty and tarry objects, the young fisherman met a pretty young girl, who stopped suddenly, and, with her large blue eyes expressing unspeakable surprise, exclaimed, "fred!" the youth sprang forward, seized the girl with his uninjured hand, and exclaimed, "isa!" as he drew her towards him. "fred--not here. behave!" said isa, holding up a warning finger. fred consented to behave--with a promise, however, that he would make up for it at a more fitting time and place. "but what is the matter!" asked isa, with an anxious look, laying her pretty little hands on the youth's arm. yes, you need not smile, reader; it is not a perquisite of ladies to have pretty little hands. isa's hands were brown, no doubt, like her cheeks, owing to exposure and sunshine, and they were somewhat roughened by honest toil; but they were small and well-shaped, with taper fingers, and their touch was very tender as she clasped them on her lover's arm. "nothing serious," replied the youth lightly; "only an accident with a fish-bone, but it has got to be pretty bad for want of attention; an' besides i'm out o' sorts somehow. no physic, you see, or doctors in our fleet, like the lucky dogs of the short-blue. i've been knocked up more or less for some weeks past, so they sent me home to be looked after. but i won't need either physic or doctor now." "no? why not?" asked the girl, with a simple look. "cause the sight o' your sweet face does away with the need of either." "don't talk nonsense, fred." "if that's nonsense," returned the fisherman, "you'll never hear me talk sense again as long as i live. but how about mother, isa? is she well!" "quite well. i have just left her puzzling herself over a letter from abroad that's so ill-written that it would bother a schoolmaster to read it. i tried to read it, but couldn't. you're a good scholar, fred, so you have come just in time to help her. but won't she be surprised to see you!" thus conversing, and walking rather slowly, the pair made their way to the attic of mrs martin, where the unexpected sight of her son threw the patient woman into a great flutter of surprise and pleasure. we use the word "patient" advisedly, for mrs martin was one of those wholesome-minded creatures who, having to battle vigorously for the bare necessaries of life in the face of many adverse circumstances, carry on the war with a degree of hearty, sweet-tempered resolution which might put to shame many who are better off in every way. mrs martin was a widow and a washerwoman, and had a ne'er-do-well brother, a fisherman, who frequently "sponged" upon her. she also had a mother to support and attend upon, as well as a "bad leg" to endure. true, the attendance on her mother was to the good woman a source of great joy. it constituted one of the few sunbeams of her existence, but it was not on that account the less costly, for the old woman could do nothing whatever to increase the income of the widow's household--she could not, indeed, move a step without assistance. her sole occupation was to sit in the attic window and gaze over the sands upon the sea, smiling hopefully, yet with a touch of sadness in the smile; mouthing her toothless gums, and muttering now and then as if to herself, "he'll come soon now." her usual attitude was that of one who listens expectantly. thirty years before granny martin had stood at the same attic window, an elderly woman even then, looking out upon the raging sea, and muttering anxiously the same words, "he'll come soon now." but her husband never came. he was lost at sea. as years flew by, and time as well as grief weakened her mind, the old woman seemed to forget the flight of time, and spent the greater part of every day in the attic window, evidently on the look-out for some one who was to come "soon." when at last she was unable to walk alone, and had to be half carried to her seat in the attic window by her strong and loving daughter, the sadness seemed to pass away, and her cheery spirit revived under the impression, apparently, that the coming could not be delayed much longer. to every one granny was condescendingly kind, especially to her grandchild fred, of whom she was very fond. only at intervals was the old woman's cheerfulness disturbed, and that was during the occasional visits of her ne'er-do-well son dick, for he was generally drunk or "half-seas-over" when he came. granny never mentioned his name when he was absent, and for a long time mrs martin supposed that she tried to forget him, but her opinion changed on this point one night when she overheard her mother praying with intense earnestness and in affectionate terms that her dear dick might yet be saved. still, however much or frequently granny's thoughts might at any time be distracted from their main channel, they invariably returned thereto with the cheerful assurance that "_he_ would soon come now." "you're ill, my boy," said mrs martin, after the first greetings were over. "right you are, mother," said the worn-out man, sitting down with a weary sigh. "i've done my best to fight it down, but it won't do." "you must have the doctor, fred." "i've had the doctor already, mother. i parted with isa wentworth at the bottom o' the stair, an' she will do me more good than dozens o' doctors or gallons o' physic." but fred was wrong. not long afterwards the _lively poll_ arrived in port, and stephen lockley hastened to announce his arrival to his wife. now it was the experience of martha lockley that if, on his regular return to land for his eight days' holiday, after his eight weeks' spell afloat, her handsome and genial husband went straight home, she was wont to have a happy meeting; but if by any chance stephen first paid a visit to the blue boar public-house, she was pretty sure to have a miserable meeting, and a more or less wretched time of it thereafter. a conversation that stephen had recently had with fred martin having made an impression on him--deeper than he chose to admit even to himself--he had made up his mind to go straight home this time. "i'll be down by daybreak to see about them repairs," he said to peter jay, as they left the _lively poll_ together, "and i'll go round by your old friend, widow mooney's, and tell her to expect you some time to-night." now peter jay was a single man, and lodged with widow mooney when on shore. it was not, however, pure consideration for his mate or the widow that influenced lockley, but his love for the widow's little invalid child, eve, for whose benefit that north sea skipper had, in the kindness of his heart, made a special collection of deep-sea shells, with some shreds of bright bunting. little eve mooney, thin, wasted, and sad, sat propped up with dirty pillows, in a dirty bed, in a dirtier room, close to a broken and paper-patched window that opened upon a coal-yard with a prospect rubbish-heap beyond. "oh, i'm _so_ glad it's you!" cried eve, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, as the fisherman entered. "yes, eve, my pretty. i'm back sooner than i expected--and look what i've brought you. i haven't forgot you." joy beamed in the lustrous eyes and on every feature of the thin face as the sick child surveyed the treasures of the deep that lockley spread on her ragged counterpane. "how good--how kind of you, stephen!" exclaimed eve. "kind!" repeated the skipper; "nothing of the sort, eve. to please you pleases me, so it's only selfishness. but where's your mother?" "drunk," said the child simply, and without the most remote intention of injuring her parent's character. indeed, that was past injury. "she's in there." the child pointed to a closet, in which stephen found on the floor a heap of unwomanly rags. he was unable to arouse the poor creature, who slumbered heavily beneath them. eve said she had been there for many hours. "she forgot to give me my breakfast before she went in, and i'm too weak to rise and get it for myself," whimpered eve, "and i'm _so_ hungry! and i got such a fright, too, for a man came in this morning about daylight and broke open the chest where mother keeps her money and took something away. i suppose he thought i was asleep, for i was too frightened to move, but i could see him all the time. please will you hand me the loaf before you go? it's in that cupboard." we need scarcely add that lockley did all that the sick child asked him to do--and more. then, after watching her till the meal was finished, he rose. "i'll go now, my pretty," he said, "and don't you be afeared. i'll soon send some one to look after you. good-bye." stephen lockley was unusually thoughtful as he left widow mooney's hut that day, and he took particular care to give the blue boar a wide berth on his way home. chapter three. the skipper ashore. right glad was mrs lockley to find that her husband had passed the blue boar without going in on his way home, and although she did not say so, she could not feel sorry for the accident to the _lively poll_, which had sent him ashore a week before his proper time. martha lockley was a pretty young woman, and the proud mother of a magnificent baby, which was bordering on that age when a child begins to have some sort of regard for its own father, and to claim much of his attention. "matty," said stephen to his wife, as he jolted his daughter into a state of wild delight on his knee, "tottie is becoming very like you. she's got the same pretty little turned-up nose, an' the same huge grey eyes with the wicked twinkle in 'em about the corners." "don't talk nonsense, stephen, but tell me about this robbery." "i know nothin' about it more than i've told ye, matty. eve didn't know the man, and her description of him is confused--she was frightened, poor thing! but i promised to send some one to look after her at once, for her drunken mother isn't fit to take care of herself, let alone the sick child. who can i send, think 'ee?" mrs lockley pursed her little mouth, knitted her brows, and gazed thoughtfully at the baby, who, taking the look as personal, made a face at her. finally she suggested isabella wentworth. "and where is she to be found?" asked the skipper. "at the martins', no doubt," replied mrs lockley, with a meaning look. "she's been there pretty much ever since poor fred martin came home, looking after old granny, for mrs martin's time is taken up wi' nursing her son. they say he's pretty bad." "then i'll go an' see about it at once," said stephen, rising, and setting tottie down. he found isa quite willing to go to eve, though mrs mooney had stormed at her and shut the door in her face on the occasion of her last visit. "but you mustn't try to see fred," she added. "the doctor says he must be kep' quiet and see no one." "all right," returned the skipper; "i'll wait till he's out o' quarantine. good day; i'll go and tell eve that you're coming." on his way to mrs mooney's hut stephen lockley had again to pass the blue boar. this time he did not give it "a wide berth." there were two roads to the hut, and the shorter was that which passed the public-house. trusting to the strength of his own resolution, he chose that road. when close to the blue monster, whose creaking sign drew so many to the verge of destruction, and plunged so many over into the gulf, he was met by skipper ned bryce, a sociable, reckless sort of man, of whom he was rather fond. bryce was skipper of the _fairy_, an iron smack, which was known in the fleet as the ironclad. "hullo! stephen. _you_ here?" "ay, a week before my time, ned. that lubber groggy fox ran into me, cut down my bulwarks, and carried away my bowsprit an' some o' my top-hamper." "come along--have a glass, an' let's hear all about it," said bryce, seizing his friend's arm; but lockley held back. "no, ned," he said; "i'm on another tack just now." "what! not hoisted the blue ribbon, eh!" "no," returned lockley, with a laugh. "i've no need to do that." "you haven't lost faith in your own power o' self-denial surely?" "no, nor that either, but--but--" "come now, none o' your `buts.' come along; my mate dick martin is in here, an' he's the best o' company." "dick martin in there!" repeated lockley, on whom a sudden thought flashed. "is he one o' your hands?" "in course he is. left the grimsby fleet a-purpose to j'ine me. rather surly he is at times, no doubt, but a good fellow at bottom, and great company. you should hear him sing. come." "oh, i know him well enough by hearsay, but never met him yet." whether it was the urgency of his friend, or a desire to meet with dick martin, that shook our skipper's wavering resolution we cannot tell, but he went into the blue boar, and took a glass for good-fellowship. being a man of strong passions and excitable nerves, this glass produced in him a desire for a second, and that for a third, until he forgot his intended visit to eve, his promises to his wife, and his stern resolves not to submit any longer to the tyranny of drink. still, the memory of mrs mooney's conduct, and of the advice of his friend fred martin, had the effect of restraining him to some extent, so that he was only what his comrades would have called a little screwed when they had become rather drunk. there are many stages of drunkenness. one of them is the confidential stage. when dick martin had reached this stage, he turned with a superhumanly solemn countenance to bryce and winked. "if--if you th-think," said bryce thickly, "th-that winkin' suits you, you're mistaken." "look 'ere," said dick, drawing a letter from his pocket with a maudlin leer, and holding it up before his comrade, who frowned at it, and then shook his head--as well he might, for, besides being very illegibly written, the letter was presented to him upside down. after holding it before him in silence long enough to impress him with the importance of the document, dick martin explained that it was a letter which he had stolen from his sister's house, because it contained "something to his advantage." "see here," he said, holding the letter close to his own eyes, still upside down, and evidently reading from memory: "`if mr frederick martin will c-call at this office any day next week between 10 an' 12, h-he will 'ear suthin' to his ad-advantage. bounce and brag, s'licitors.' there!" "but _you_ ain't fred martin," said bryce, with a look of supreme contempt, for he had arrived at the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness. "right you are," said martin; "but i'm his uncle. same name c-'cause his mother m-married her c-cousin; and there ain't much difference 'tween dick and fred--four letters, both of 'em--so if i goes wi' the letter, an' says, `i'm fred martin,' w'y, they'll hand over the blunt, or the jewels, or wotiver it is, to me--d'ee see?" "no, i don't see," returned bryce so irritatingly that his comrade left the confidential stage astern, and requested to know, with an affable air, when bryce lost his eyesight. "when i first saw _you_, and thought you worth your salt," shouted bryce, as he brought his fist heavily down on the table. both men were passionate. they sprang up, grappled each other by the throat, and fell on the floor. in doing so they let the letter fall. it fluttered to the ground, and lockley, quietly picking it up, put it in his pocket. "you'd better look after them," said lockley to the landlord, as he paid his reckoning, and went out. in a few minutes he stood in widow mooney's hut, and found isa wentworth already there. "i'm glad you sent me here," said the girl, "for mrs mooney has gone out--" she stopped and looked earnestly in lockley's face. "you've been to the blue boar," she said in a serious tone. "yes, lass, i have," admitted the skipper, but without a touch of resentment. "i did not mean to go, but it's as well that i did, for i've rescued a letter from dick martin which seems to be of some importance, an' he says he stole it from his sister's house." he handed the letter to the girl, who at once recognised it as the epistle over which she and mrs martin had puzzled so much, and which had finally been deciphered for them by dick martin. "he must have made up his mind to pretend that he is fred," said isa, "and so get anything that was intended for him." "you're a sharp girl, isa; you've hit the nail fair on the head, for i heard him in his drunken swagger boast of his intention to do that very thing. now, will you take in hand, lass, to give the letter back to mrs martin, and explain how you came by it?" of course isa agreed to do so, and lockley, turning to eve, said he would tell her a story before going home. the handsome young skipper was in the habit of entertaining the sick child with marvellous tales of the sea during his frequent visits, for he was exceedingly fond of her, and never failed to call during his periodical returns to land. his love was well bestowed, for poor eve, besides being of an affectionate nature, was an extremely imaginative child, and delighted in everything marvellous or romantic. on this occasion, however, he was interrupted at the commencement of his tale by the entrance of his own ship's cook, the boy bob lumsden, _alias_ lumpy. "hullo, lumpy, what brings you here?" asked the skipper. but the boy made no answer. he was evidently taken aback at the unexpected sight of the sick child, and the skipper had to repeat his question in a sterner tone. even then lumpy did not look at his commander, but, addressing the child, said-"beg parding, miss; i wouldn't have come in if i'd knowed you was in bed, but--" "oh, never mind," interrupted eve, with a little smile, on seeing that he hesitated; "my friends never see me except in bed. indeed i live in bed; but you must not think i'm lazy. it's only that my back's bad. come in and sit down." "well, boy," demanded the skipper again, "were you sent here to find _me_?" "yes, sir," said lumpy, with his eyes still fixed on the earnest little face of eve. "mister jay sent me to say he wants to speak to you about the heel o' the noo bowsprit." "tell him i'll be aboard in half an hour." "i didn't know before," said eve, "that bowsprits have heels." at this lumpy opened his large mouth, nearly shut his small eyes, and was on the point of giving vent to a rousing laugh, when his commander half rose and seized hold of a wooden stool. the boy shut his mouth instantly, and fled into the street, where he let go the laugh which had been thus suddenly checked. "well, she _is_ a rum 'un!" he said to himself, as he rolled in a nautical fashion down to the wharf where the _lively poll_ was undergoing repairs. "i think he's a funny boy, that," said eve, as the skipper stooped to kiss her. "yes, he _is_ a funny dog. good-bye, my pretty one." "stay," said eve solemnly, as she laid her delicate little hand on the huge brown fist of the fisherman; "you've often told me stories, stephen; i want to tell one to you to-night. you need not sit down; it's a very, very short one." but the skipper did sit down, and listened with a look of interest and expectation as the child began-"there was once a great, strong, brave man, who was very kind to everybody, most of all to little children. one day he was walking near a river, when a great, fearful, ugly beast, came out of the wood, and seized the man with its terrible teeth. it was far stronger than the dear, good man, and it threw him down, and held him down, till--till it killed him." she stopped, and tears filled her soft eyes at the scene she had conjured up. "do you know," she asked in a deeper tone, "what sort of awful beast it was?" "no; what was it?" "a blue boar," said the child, pressing the strong hand which she detained. lockley's eyes fell for a moment before eve's earnest gaze, and a flush deepened the colour of his bronzed countenance. then he sprang suddenly up and kissed eve's forehead. "thank you, my pretty one, for your story, but it an't just correct, for the man is not quite killed _yet_ and, please god, he'll escape." as he spoke the door of the hut received a severe blow, as if some heavy body had fallen against it. when isa opened it, a dirty bundle of rags and humanity rolled upon the floor. it was eve's mother! lifting her up in his strong arms, lockley carried her into the closet which opened off the outer room, and laid her tenderly on a mattress which lay on the floor. then, without a word, he left the hut and went home. it is scarcely necessary to add that he took the longer road on that occasion, and gave a very wide berth indeed to the blue boar. chapter four. hardships on the sea. fly with us now, good reader, once more out among the breeze-ruffled billows of the north sea. it was blowing a fine, fresh, frosty fishing breeze from the nor'-west on a certain afternoon in december. the admiral--manx bradley--was guiding his fleet over that part of the german ocean which is described on the deep-sea fisherman's chart as the swarte, or black bank. the trawls were down, and the men were taking it easy--at least, as easy as was compatible with slush-covered decks, a bitter blast, and a rolling sea. if we had the power of extending and intensifying your vision, reader, so as to enable you to take the whole fleet in at one stupendous glance, and penetrate planks as if they were plate glass, we might, perhaps, convince you that in this multitude of deep-sea homes there was carried on that night a wonderful amount of vigorous action, good and bad--largely, if not chiefly bad--under very peculiar circumstances, and that there was room for improvement everywhere. strong and bulky and wiry men were gambling and drinking, and singing and swearing; story-telling and fighting, and skylarking and sleeping. the last may be classed appropriately under the head of action, if we take into account the sonorous doings of throats and noses. as if to render the round of human procedure complete, there was at least one man--perhaps more--praying. yes, manx bradley, the admiral, was praying. and his prayer was remarkably brief, as well as earnest. its request was that god would send help to the souls of the men whose home was the north sea. for upwards of thirty years manx and a few like-minded men had persistently put up that petition. during the last few years of that time they had mingled thanksgiving with the prayer, for a gracious answer was being given. god had put it into the heart of the present director of the mission to deep-sea fishermen to inaugurate a system of evangelisation among the heretofore neglected thousands of men and boys who toil upon the north sea from january to december. mission or gospel smacks were purchased, manned by christian skippers and crews, and sent out to the various fleets, to fish with them during the week, and supply them with medicine for body and soul, with lending libraries of wholesome christian literature, and with other elevating influences, not least among which was a floating church or meeting-house on sundays. but up to the time we write of, manx bradley had only been able to rejoice in the blessing as sent to others. it had not yet reached his own fleet, the twelve or thirteen hundred men and boys of which were still left in their original condition of semi-savagery, and exposure to the baleful influences of that pest of the north sea--the _coper_. "you see, jacob jones," said the admiral to the only one of his "hands" who sympathised with him in regard to religion, "if it warn't for the baccy, them accursed _copers_ wouldn't be able to keep sich a hold of us. why, bless you, there's many a young feller in this fleet as don't want no grog--especially the vile, fiery stuff the _copers_ sell 'em; but when the dutchmen offers the baccy so cheap as 1 shilling 6 pence a pound, the boys are only too glad to go aboard and git it. then the dutchmen, being uncommon sly dogs, gives 'em a glass o' their vile brandy for good-fellowship by way of, an' that flies to their heads, an' makes 'em want more--d'ee see? an' so they go on till many of 'em becomes regular topers--that's where it is, jacob." "why don't the mission smacks sell baccy too?" asked jacob, stamping his feet on the slushy deck to warm them, and beating his right hand on the tiller for the same purpose. "you're a knowing fellow," returned the admiral, with a short laugh; "why, that's just what they've bin considerin' about at the head office--leastwise, so i'm told; an' if they manage to supply the fleets wi' baccy at 1 shilling a pound, which is 6 pence less than the dutchmen do, they'll soon knock the _copers_ off the north sea altogether. but the worst of it is that _we_ won't git no benefit o' that move till a mission smack is sent to our own fleet, an' to the half-dozen other fleets that have got none." at this point the state of the weather claiming his attention, the admiral went forward, and left jacob jones, who was a new hand in the fleet, to his meditations. one of the smacks which drew her trawl that night over the swarte bank not far from the admiral was the _lively poll_--repaired, and rendered as fit for service as ever. not far from her sailed the _cherub_, and the _cormorant_, and that inappropriately named _fairy_, the "ironclad." in the little box of the _lively poll_--which out of courtesy we shall style the cabin--jim freeman and david duffy were playing cards, and stephen lockley was smoking. joe stubby was drinking, smoking, and grumbling at the weather; hawkson, a new hand shipped in place of fred martin, was looking on. the rest were on deck. "what's the use o' grumblin', stub?" said hawkson, lifting a live coal with his fingers to light his pipe. "don't `stub' me," said stubley in an angry tone. "would you rather like me to stab you?" asked hawkson, with a good-humoured glance, as he puffed at his pipe. "i'd rather you clapped a stopper on your jaw." "ah--so's you might have all the jawin' to yourself?" retorted hawkson. whatever reply joe stubley meant to make was interrupted by jim freeman exclaiming with an oath that he had lost again, and would play no more. he flung down the cards recklessly, and david duffy gathered them up, with the twinkling smile of a good-natured victor. "come, let's have a yarn," cried freeman, filling his pipe, with the intention of soothing his vanquished spirit. "who'll spin it?" asked duffy, sitting down, and preparing to add to the fumes of the place. "come, stub, you tape it off; it'll be better occupation than growlin' at the poor weather, what's never done you no harm yet though there's no sayin' what it may do if you go on as you've bin doin', growlin' an' aggravatin' it." "i never spin yarns," said stubley. "but you tell stories sometimes, don't you?" asked hawkson. "no, never." "oh! that's a story anyhow," cried freeman. "come, i'll spin ye one," said the skipper, in that hearty tone which had an irresistible tendency to put hearers in good humour, and sometimes even raised the growling spirit of joe stubley into something like amiability. "what sort o' yarn d'ee want, boys?" he asked, stirring the fire in the small stove that warmed the little cabin; "shall it be comical or sentimental?" "let's have a true ghost story," cried puffy. "no, no," said freeman, "a hanecdote--that's what i'm fondest of-suthin' short an' sweet, as the little boy said to the stick o' liquorice." "tell us," said stubley, "how it was you come to be saved the night the _saucy jane_ went down." "ah! lads," said lockley, with a look and a tone of gravity, "there's no fun in that story. it was too terrible and only by a miracle, or rather--as poor fred martin said at the time--by god's mercy, i was saved." "was fred there at the time!" asked duffy. "ay, an' very near lost he was too. i thought he would never get over it." "poor chap!" said freeman; "he don't seem to be likely to git over this arm. it's been a long time bad now." "oh, he'll get over that," returned lockley; "in fact, it's a'most quite well now, i'm told, an' he's pretty strong again--though the fever did pull him down a bit. it's not that, it's money, that's keepin' him from goin' afloat again." "how's that?" asked puffy. "this is how it was. he got a letter which axed him to call on a lawyer in lun'on, who told him an old friend of his father had made a lot o' tin out in austeralia, an' he died, an' left some hundreds o' pounds--i don't know how many--to his mother." "humph! that's just like him, the hypercrit," growled joe stubley; "no sooner comes a breeze o' good luck than off he goes, too big and mighty for his old business. he was always preachin' that money was the root of all evil, an' now he's found it out for a fact." "no, fred never said that `money was the root of all evil,' you thick-head," returned duffy; "he said it was the _love_ of money. put that in your pipe and smoke it--or rather, in your glass an' drink it, for that's the way to get it clearer in your fuddled brain." "hold on, boys; you're forgettin' my yarn," interposed lockley at this point, for he saw that stubley was beginning to lose temper. "well, you must know it was about six years ago--i was little more than a big lad at the time, on board the _saucy jane_, black thomson bein' the skipper. you've heard o' black thomson, that used to be so cruel to the boys when he was in liquor, which was pretty nigh always, for it would be hard to say when he wasn't in liquor? he tried it on wi' me when i first went aboard, but i was too--well, well, poor fellow, i'll say nothin' against him, for he's gone now." "fred martin was there at the time, an' it was wonderful what a hold fred had over that old sinner. none of us could understand it, for fred never tried to curry favour with him, an' once or twice i heard him when he thought nobody was near, givin' advice to black thomson about drink, in his quiet earnest way, that made me expect to see the skipper knock him down. but he didn't. he took it well--only he didn't take his advice, but kep' on drinkin' harder than ever. whenever a _coper_ came in sight at that time thomson was sure to have the boat over the side an' pay him a visit. "well, about this time o' the year there came one night a most tremendous gale, wi' thick snow, from the nor'ard. it was all we could do to make out anything twenty fathom ahead of us. the skipper he was lyin' drunk down below. we was close reefed and laying to with the foresail a-weather, lookin' out anxiously, for, the fleet bein' all round and the snow thick, our chances o' runnin' foul o' suthin' was considerable. when we took in the last reef we could hardly stand to do it, the wind was so strong--an' wasn't it freezin', too! sharp enough a'most to freeze the nose off your face. "about midnight the wind began to shift about and came in squalls so hard that we could scarcely stand, so we took in the jib and mizzen, and lay to under the foresail. of course the hatchways was battened down and tarpaulined, for the seas that came aboard was fearful. when i was standin' there, expectin' every moment that we should founder, a sea came and swept fred martin overboard. of course we could do nothing for him--we could only hold on for our lives; but the very next sea washed him right on deck again. he never gave a cry, but i heard him say `praise the lord!' in his own quiet way when he laid hold o' the starboard shrouds beside me. "just then another sea came aboard an' a'most knocked the senses out o' me. at the same moment i heard a tremendous crash, an' saw the mast go by the board. what happened after that i never could rightly understand. i grabbed at something--it felt like a bit of plank--and held on tight, you may be sure, for the cold had by that time got such a hold o' me that i knew if i let go i would go down like a stone. i had scarce got hold of it when i was seized round the neck by something behind me an' a'most choked. "i couldn't look round to see what it was, but i could see a great black object coming straight at me. i knew well it was a smack, an' gave a roar that might have done credit to a young walrus. the smack seemed to sheer off a bit, an' i heard a voice shout, `starboard hard! i've got him,' an' i got a blow on my cocoanut that well-nigh cracked it. at the same time a boat-hook caught my coat collar an' held on. in a few seconds more i was hauled on board of the _cherub_ by manx bradley, an' the feller that was clingin' to my neck like a young lobster was fred martin. the _saucy jane_ went to the bottom that night." "an' black thomson--did he go down with her?" asked duffy. "ay, that was the end of him and all the rest of the crew. the fleet lost five smacks that night." "admiral's a-signallin', sir," said one of the watch on deck, putting his head down the hatch at that moment. lockley went on deck at once. another moment, and the shout came down--"haul! haul all!" instantly the sleepers turned out all through the fleet. oiled frocks, sou'-westers, and long boots were drawn on, and the men hurried on the decks to face the sleet-laden blast and man the capstan bars, with the prospect before them of many hours of hard toil--heaving and hauling and fish-cleaning and packing with benumbed fingers--before the dreary winter night should give place to the grey light of a scarcely less dreary day. chapter five. the tempter's victory. "i wouldn't mind the frost or snow, or anything else," growled joe stubley, pausing in the midst of his labours among the fish, "if it warn't for them sea-blisters. just look at that, jim," he added, turning up the hard sleeve of his oiled coat, and exposing a wrist which the feeble rays of the lantern showed to be badly excoriated and inflamed. "ay, it's an ugly bracelet, an' i've got one myself just begun on my left wrist," remarked jim freeman, also suspending labour for a moment to glance at his mate's wound. "if our fleet had a mission ship, like some o' the other fleets, we'd not only have worsted mitts for our wrists, but worsted helmets for our heads an' necks--to say nothin' of lotions, pills an' plasters." "if they'd only fetch us them things an' let alone tracts, bibles, an' religion," returned stubley, "i'd have no objection to 'em, but what's the use o' religion to a drinkin', swearin', gamblin' lot like us?" "it's quite clear that your notions about religion are muddled," said david duffy, with a short laugh. "why, what's the use o' physic to a sick man, stubs?" "to make him wuss," replied stubs promptly. "you might as well argify with a lobster as with joe stubs," said bob lumsden, who, although burdened with the cares of the cooking department, worked with the men at cleaning and packing. "what does a boy like you know about lobsters, 'cept to cook 'em?" growled stubley. "you mind your pots an' pans. that's all your brains are fit for--if you have brains at all. leave argification to men." "that's just what i was advisin' duffy to do, an' not waste his breath on the likes o' you," retorted the boy, with a grin. the conversation was stopped at this point by the skipper ordering the men to shake out a reef, as the wind was moderating. by the time this was accomplished daybreak was lighting up the eastern horizon, and ere long the pale grey of the cold sea began to warm up a little under the influence of the not yet visible sun. "goin' to be fine," said lockley, as he scanned the horizon with his glass. "looks like it," replied the mate. remarks were few and brief at that early hour, for the men, being pretty well fagged, preferred to carry on their monotonous work in silence. as morning advanced the fleet was clearly seen in all directions and at all distances around, holding on the same course as the _lively poll_. gradually the breeze moderated, and before noon the day had turned out bright and sunny, with only a few thin clouds floating in the wintry sky. by that time the fish-boxes, or trunks, were all packed, and the men availed themselves of the brief period of idleness pending the arrival of the steam-carrier from billingsgate to eat a hearty breakfast. this meal, it may be remarked, was a moveable feast, depending very much on the duties in hand and the arrival of the steamer. to get the fish ready and shipped for market is always regarded as his first and all-important duty by the deep-sea trawler, who, until it is performed, will not condescend to give attention to such secondary matters as food and repose. these are usually taken when opportunity serves. pipes and recreation, in the form of games at cards, draughts, dominoes, and yarns, are also snatched at intervals between the periods of severe toil. nevertheless, there are times when the fisherman's experience is very different. when prolonged calms render fishing impossible, then time hangs heavily on his hands, and--in regard to the fleet of which we write and all those similarly circumstanced--the only recreations available are sleeping, drinking, gambling, and yarn-spinning. true, such calms do not frequently occur in winter, but they sometimes do, and one of them prevailed on the afternoon of the particular winter's day, of which we treat. after the departure of the carrier that day, the wind fell so much that the admiral deemed it advisable not to put down the nets. before long the light air died away altogether, and the fleet was left floating idly, in picturesque groups and with flapping sails, on the glassy sea. among the groups thus scattered about, there was one smack which had quietly joined the fleet when the men were busy transhipping or "ferrying" the fish to the steam-carrier. its rig was so similar to that of the other smacks that a stranger might have taken it for one of the fleet but the fishermen knew better. it was that enemy of souls, that floating grog-shop, that pirate of the north sea, the _coper_. "good luck to 'ee," muttered joe stubley, whose sharp, because sympathetic, eye was first to observe the vessel. "it's bad luck to _you_ anyhow," remarked bob the cook, who chanced to pass at the moment. "mind your own business, lumpy, an' none o' your sauce, if you don't want a rope's-endin'," retorted the man. "ain't i just mindin' my own business? why, wot is sauce but part of a cook's business?" returned the boy. "i _won't_ go to her," thought stephen lockley, who overheard the conversation, and in whose breast a struggle had been going on, for he also had seen the _coper_, and, his case-bottle having run dry, he was severely tempted to have it replenished. "would it not be as well, skipper, to go aboard o' the _coper_, as she's so near at hand!" said the mate, coming aft at the moment. "well, no, peter; i think it would be as well to drop the _coper_ altogether. the abominable stuff the dutchmen sell us is enough to poison a shark. you know i'm not a teetotaller, but if i'm to be killed at all, i'd rather be killed by good spirits than bad." "right you are," replied jay, "but, you see, a lot of us are hard up for baccy, and--" "of course, of course; the men must have baccy," interrupted the skipper, "an' we don't need to buy their vile brandy unless we like. yes, get the boat out, jay, an' we'll go." stephen lockley was not the first man who has deceived himself as to his motives. tobacco was his excuse for visiting the floating den of temptation, but a craving for strong drink was his real motive. this craving had been created imperceptibly, and had been growing by degrees for some years past, twining its octopus arms tighter and tighter round his being, until the strong and hearty young fisherman was slowly but surely becoming an abject slave, though he had fancied himself heretofore as free as the breezes that whistled round his vessel. now, for the first time, lockley began to have uncomfortable suspicions about himself. being naturally bold and candid, he turned sharply round, and, as it were, faced _himself_ with the stern question, "stephen, are you sure that it's baccy that tempts you aboard of the _coper_? are you clear that schnapps has nothing to do with it?" it is one of the characteristics of the slavery to which we refer, that although strong-minded and resolute men put pointed questions of this sort to themselves not unfrequently, they very seldom return answers to them. their once vigorous spirits, it would seem, are still capable of an occasional heave and struggle--a sort of flash in the pan--but that is all. the influence of the depraved appetite immediately weighs them down, and they relapse into willing submission to the bondage. lockley had not returned an answer to his own question when the mate reported that the boat was ready. without a word he jumped into her, but kept thinking to himself, "we'll only get baccy, an' i'll leave the _coper_ before the lads can do themselves any harm. i'll not taste a drop myself--not a single drop o' their vile stuff." the dutch skipper of the _coper_ had a round fat face and person, and a jovial, hearty manner. he received the visitors with an air of open-handed hospitality which seemed to indicate that nothing was further from his thoughts than gain. "we've come for baccy," said lockley, as he leaped over the bulwarks and shook hands, "i s'pose you've plenty of that?" "ya," the dutchman had "plenty tabac--ver sheep too, an' mit sooch a goot vlavour!" he was what the yankees would call a 'cute fellow, that dutchman. observing the emphasis with which lockley mentioned tobacco, he understood at once that the skipper did not want his men to drink, and laid his snares accordingly. "com'," he said, in a confidential tone, taking hold of lockley's arm, "com' b'low, an' you shall zee de tabac, an' smell him yourself." our skipper accepted the invitation, went below, and was soon busy commenting on the weed, which, as the dutchman truly pointed out, was "_so_ sheep as well as goot." but another smell in that cabin overpowered that of the tobacco. it was the smell of hollands, or some sort of spirit, which soon aroused the craving that had gained such power over the fisherman. "have some schnapps!" said the dutch skipper, suddenly producing a case-bottle as square as himself, and pouring out a glass. "no, thank 'ee," said stephen firmly. "no!" exclaimed the other, with well-feigned surprise. "you not drink?" "oh yes, i drink," replied lockley, with a laugh, "but not to-day." "i not ask you to buy," rejoined the tempter, holding the spirits a little nearer to his victim's nose. "joost take von leetle glass for goot vellowship." it seemed rude to decline a proposal so liberally made, and with such a smiling countenance. lockley took the glass, drank it off and went hurriedly on deck, followed by the dutchman, with the case-bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. of course the men had no objection to be treated. they had a small glass all round. "that's the stuff for my money!" cried stubley, smacking his lips. "i say, old chap, let's have a bottle of it. none o' your thimblefuls for me. i like a good swig when i'm at it." "you'd better wait till we get aboard, joe, before you begin," suggested lockley, who was well aware of joe's tendencies. joe admitted the propriety of this advice, but said he would treat his mates to one glass before starting, by "way o' wetting their whistles." "ya, joost von glass vor vet deir vistles," echoed the dutchman, with a wink and a look which produced a roar of laughter. the glass was accepted by all, including lockley, who had been quite demoralised by the first glass. the victory was gained by the tempter for that time at least. the fishermen who went for baccy, remained for schnapps, and some of them were very soon more than half drunk. it was a fierce, maddening kind of spirit, which produced its powerful effects quickly. the skipper of the _lively poll_ kept himself better in hand than his men, but, being very sociable in disposition, and finding the dutchman a humorous and chatty fellow, he saw no reason to hurry them away. besides, his vessel was close alongside, and nothing could be done in the fishing way during the dead calm that prevailed. while he and his men were engaged in a lively conversation about nothing in particular--though they were as earnest over it as if the fate of empires depended on their judgment--the dutch skipper rose to welcome another boat's crew, which approached on the other side of the _coper_. so eager and fuddled were the disputants of the _lively poll_ that they did not at first observe the newcomers. it was the _fairy's_ boat, with dick martin in charge. "hallo, dick, mein boy; gif me your vlipper." a sign from martin induced the dutchman to lean over the side and speak in lower tones. "let's have a keg of it," said dick, with a mysterious look. "ned bryce sent me for a good supply, an' here's _fish_ to pay for it." the fish--which of course belonged to the owner of the _fairy_, not to ned bryce--were quickly passed up, and a keg of spirits passed down. then the dutchman asked if dick or his men wanted tabac or schnapps for themselves. "i vill take jersey, or vish, or sail, or boots, or vat you please in exchange. com' aboard, anyhow, an' have von leetle glass." dick and his men having thus smartly transacted their chief business, leaped on deck, made fast their painter, let the boat drop astern, and were soon smoking and drinking amicably with the crew of the _lively poll_. not long afterwards they were quarrelling. then dick martin, who was apt to become pugnacious over his liquor, asserted stoutly that something or other "was." joe stubley swore that it "_was not_," whereupon dick martin planted his fist on joe stubley's nose and laid its growly owner flat on the deck. starting up, joe was about to retaliate, when lockley, seizing him by the neck thrust him over the side into the boat, and ordered his more or less drunken crew to follow. they did so with a bad grace, but the order was given in a tone which they well understood must not be disobeyed. as they pushed off, stubley staggered and fell into the sea. another moment and he would have been beyond all human aid, but lockley caught a glimpse of his shaggy black head as it sank. plunging his long right arm down, and holding on to the boat with his left, he caught the drowning man by the hair. strong and willing arms helped, and stubley was hauled inboard--restored to life, opportunity, and hope--and flung into the bottom of the boat. the oars were shipped, and they pulled for the _lively poll_. as they rode away they saw that other boats were proceeding towards the _coper_. the men in them were all anxious to buy baccy. no mention was made of drink. oh dear no! they cared nothing for that, though, of course, they had no sort of objection to accept the wily dutchman's generous offer of "von leetle glass vor goot vellowship." chapter six. the power of sympathy. one fine afternoon, not long after the visit to the _coper_, bob lumsden, _alias_ lumpy, was called from his culinary labours to assist in hauling in the net. now it is extremely interesting to note what a wonderful effect the power of loving sympathy can have on a human being. lumpy was a human being--though some of his mates insisted that he must have been descended from a cod-fish, because his mouth was so large. no doubt it was, and when the boy laughed heartily he was, indeed, apt to remind one of that fish; nevertheless it was a good, well-shaped mouth, though large, with a kindly expression about it, and a set of splendid white teeth inside of it. but, whether human or fishy in his nature, bob lumsden had been overwhelmed by a flood of sympathy ever since that memorable day when he had first caught a glimpse of the sweet, pale face of the little invalid eve mooney. it was but a brief glimpse, yet it had opened a new sluice in lumpy's heart, through which the waters of tenderness gushed in a wild torrent. one of the curious results of this flood was that bob was always more prompt to the summons to haul up the trawl than he had ever been before, more energetic in clawing the net inboard, and more eager to see and examine the contents of the cod-end. the explanation is simple. he had overheard his skipper say how fond eve was of shells--especially of those which came from the bottom of the north sea, and of all sorts of pretty and curious things, wherever they came from. from that hour bob lumpy became a diligent collector of marine curiosities, and the very small particular corner of the vessel which he called his own became ere long quite a museum. they say that sympathy is apt to grow stronger between persons of opposite constitutions. if this be so, perhaps it was his nature--his bold, hearty, gushing, skylarking spirit, his strong rugged frame, his robust health, his carroty hair, his appley cheeks, his eagle nose, his flashing eyes--that drew him so powerfully to the helpless, tender little invalid, with her delicate frame and pale cheeks, straight little nose, bud of a mouth, and timid, though by no means cowardly, spirit. on another occasion bob overheard lockley again talking about eve. "i'm sorry for the poor thing," he said to peter jay, as they paced the deck together; "she's got such a wretched home, an' her mother's such a drunken bru--" lockley checked himself, and did not finish the sentence. "the doctor says," he resumed, "that if eve had only a bath-chair or suthin' o' that sort, to get wheeled about in the fresh air, she'd very likely get better as she growed older--specially if she had good victuals. you see, small as she is, and young as she looks, she's over fifteen. but even if she had the chair, poor thing! who would wheel it for her? it would be no use unless it was done regular, an' her mother can't do it--or won't." from that hour bob lumpy became a miser. he had been a smoker like the rest of the crew, but he gave up "baccy." he used to take an occasional glass of beer or spirits when on shore or on board the _copers_, but he became a total abstainer, much to his own benefit in every way, and as a result he became rich--in an extremely small way. there was a very small, thin, and dirty, but lively and intelligent boy in yarmouth, who loved bob lumsden better, if possible, than himself. his name was pat stiver. the affection was mutual. bob took this boy into his confidence. one day, a considerable time after bob's discovery of eve, pat, having nothing to do, sauntered to the end of gorleston pier, and there to his inexpressible joy, met his friend. before he had recovered sufficiently from surprise to utter a word, bob seized him by the arms, lifted him up, and shook him. "take care, lumpy," cried the boy, "i'm wery tender, like an over-young chicken. you'd better set me down before i comes in pieces." "why, stiver, you're the very man i was thinkin' of," said lumpy, setting the boy on the edge of the pier, and sitting down beside him. stiver looked proud, and felt six inches taller. "listen," said bob, with an earnest look that was apt to captivate his friends; "i want help. will you do somethin' for me?" "anything," replied the boy with emphasis, "from pitch and toss to manslaughter!" "well, look here. you know eve mooney?" "do i know the blessedest angel in all gorleston? in course i does. wot of her?" "she's ill--very ill," said lumpy. "you might as well tell me, when it's daytime, that the sun's up," returned pat. "don't be so awful sharp, stiver, else i'll have to snub you." "which you've on'y got to frown, bob lumpy, an' the deed's done." bob gave a short laugh, and then proceeded to explain matters to his friend: how he had been saving up his wages for some time past to buy a second-hand bath-chair for eve, because the doctor had said it would do her so much good, especially if backed up with good victuals. "it's the wittles as bothers me, stiver," said bob, regarding his friend with a puzzled expression. "h'm! well," returned the small boy seriously, "wittles has bothered me too, off an' on, pretty well since i was born, though i'm bound to confess i does get a full blow-out now an'--" "hold on, stiver; you're away on the wrong tack," cried bob, interrupting. "i don't mean the difficulty o' findin' wittles, but how to get eve to take 'em." "tell her to shut her eyes an' open her mouth, an' then shove 'em in," suggested pat. "i'll shove you into the sea if you go on talking balderdash," said bob. "now, look here, you hain't got nothin' to do, have you!" "if you mean in the way o' my purfession, bob, you're right. i purfess to do anything, but nobody as yet has axed me to do nothin'. in the ways o' huntin' up wittles, howsever, i've plenty to do. it's hard lines, and yet i ain't extravagant in my expectations. most coves require three good meals a day, w'ereas i'm content with one. i begins at breakfast, an' i goes on a-eatin' promiskoously all day till arter supper--w'en i can get it." "just so, stiver. now, i want to engage you professionally. your dooties will be to hang about mrs mooney's, but in an offhand, careless sort o' way, like them superintendent chaps as git five or six hundred a year for doin' nuffin, an' be ready at any time to offer to give eve a shove in the chair. but first you'll have to take the chair to her, an' say it was sent to her from--" "robert lumsden, esquire," said pat, seeing that his friend hesitated. "not at all, you little idiot," said bob sharply. "you mustn't mention my name on no account." "from a gentleman, then," suggested pat. "that might do; but i ain't a gentleman, stiver, an' i can't allow you to go an' tell lies." "i'd like to know who is if you ain't," returned the boy indignantly. "ain't a gentleman a man wot's gentle? an' w'en you was the other day a-spreadin' of them lovely shells, an' crabs, an' sea-goin' kooriosities out on her pocket-hankercher, didn't i _see_ that you was gentle?" "i'll be pretty rough on you, pat, in a minit, if you don't hold your jaw," interrupted bob, who, however, did not seem displeased with his friend's definition of a gentleman. "well, you may say what you like, only be sure you say what's true. an' then you'll have to take some nice things as i'll get for her from time to time w'en i comes ashore. but there'll be difficulties, i doubt, in the way of gettin' her to take wittles w'en she don't know who they comes from." "oh, don't you bother your head about that," said pat. "i'll manage it. i'm used to difficulties. just you leave it to me, an' it'll be all right." "well, i will, pat; so you'll come round with me to the old furnitur' shop in yarmouth, an' fetch the chair. i got it awful cheap from the old chap as keeps the shop w'en i told him what it was for. then you'll bring it out to eve, an' try to git her to have a ride in it to-day, if you can. i'll see about the wittles arter. hain't quite worked that out in my mind yet. now, as to wages. i fear i can't offer you none--" "i never axed for none," retorted pat proudly. "that's true pat; but i'm not a-goin' to make you slave for nuthin'. i'll just promise you that i'll save all i can o' my wages, an' give you what i can spare. you'll just have to trust me as to that." "trust you, bob!" exclaimed pat, with enthusiasm, "look here, now; this is how the wind blows. if the prime minister o' rooshia was to come to me in full regimentals an' offer to make me capting o' the horse marines to the hemperor, i'd say, `no thankee, i'm engaged,' as the young woman said to the young man she didn't want to marry." the matter being thus satisfactorily settled, bob lumsden and his little friend went off to yarmouth, intent on carrying out the first part of their plan. it chanced about the same time that another couple were having a quiet chat together in the neighbourhood of gorleston pier. fred martin and isa wentworth had met by appointment to talk over a subject of peculiar interest to themselves. let us approach and become eavesdroppers. "now, fred," said isa, with a good deal of decision in her tone, "i'm not at all satisfied with your explanation. these mysterious and long visits you make to london ought to be accounted for, and as i have agreed to become your wife within the next three or four months, just to please _you_, the least you can do, i think, is to have no secrets from _me_. besides, you have no idea what the people here and your former shipmates are saying about you." "indeed, dear lass, what do they say?" "well, they say now you've got well they can't understand why you should go loafing about doin' nothin' or idling your time in london, instead of goin' to sea." "idlin' my time!" exclaimed fred with affected indignation. "how do they know i'm idlin' my time? what if i was studyin' to be a doctor or a parson?" "perhaps they'd say that _was_ idlin' your time, seein' that you're only a fisherman," returned isa, looking up in her lover's face with a bright smile. "but tell me, fred, why should you have any secret from _me_?" "because, dear lass, the thing that gives me so much pleasure and hope is not absolutely fixed, and i don't want you to be made anxious. this much i will tell you, however: you know i passed my examination for skipper when i was home last time, and now, through god's goodness, i have been offered the command of a smack. if all goes well, i hope to sail in her next week; then, on my return, i hope to--to take the happiest. well, well, i'll say no more about that, as we're gettin' near mother's door. but tell me, isa, has uncle martin been worrying mother again when i was away?" "no. when he found out that you had got the money that was left to her, and had bought an annuity for her with it, he went away, and i've not seen him since." "that's well. i'm glad of that." "but am i to hear nothing more about this smack, not even her name?" "nothing more just now, isa. as to her name, it's not yet fixed. but, trust me, you shall know all in good time." as they had now reached the foot of mrs martin's stair, the subject was dropped. they found the good woman in the act of supplying granny martin with a cup of tea. there was obvious improvement in the attic. sundry little articles of luxury were there which had not been there before. "you see, my boy," said mrs martin to fred, as they sat round the social board, "now that the lord has sent me enough to get along without slavin' as i used--to do, i takes more time to make granny comfortable, an' i've got her a noo chair, and noo specs, which she was much in want of, for the old uns was scratched to that extent you could hardly see through 'em, besides bein' cracked across both eyes. ain't they much better, dear?" the old woman, seated in the attic window, turned her head towards the tea-table and nodded benignantly once or twice; but the kind look soon faded into the wonted air of patient contentment, and the old head turned to the sea as the needle turns to the pole, and the soft murmur was heard, "he'll come soon now." chapter seven. a rescue. never was there a fishing smack more inappropriately named than the _fairy_,--that unwieldy iron vessel which the fleet, in facetious content, had dubbed the "ironclad," and which had the honour of being commanded by that free and easy, sociable--almost too sociable--skipper, ned bryce. she was steered by dick martin on the day of which we now write. dick, as he stood at the helm, with stern visage, bloodshot eyes, and dissipated look, was not a pleasant object of contemplation, but as he played a prominent part in the proceedings of that memorable day, we are bound to draw attention to him. although he had spent a considerable portion of the night with his skipper in testing the quality of some schnapps which they had recently procured from a _coper_, he had retained his physical and mental powers sufficiently for the performance of his duties. indeed, he was one of those so-called seasoned casks, who are seldom or never completely disabled by drink, although thoroughly enslaved, and he was now quite competent to steer the _fairy_ in safety through the mazes of that complex dance which the deep-sea trawlers usually perform on the arrival of the carrying-steamer. what bryce called a chopping and a lumpy sea was running. it was decidedly rough, though the breeze was moderate, so that the smacks all round were alternately presenting sterns and bowsprits to the sky in a violent manner that might have suggested the idea of a rearing and kicking dance. when the carrier steamed up to the admiral, and lay to beside him, and the smacks drew towards her from all points of the compass, the mazes of the dance became intricate, and the risk of collisions called for careful steering. being aware of this, and being himself not quite so steady about the head as he could wish, skipper bryce looked at martin for a few seconds, and then ordered him to go help to launch the boat and get the trunks out, and send phil morgan aft. phil was not a better seaman than dick, but he was a more temperate man, therefore clearer brained and more dependable. soon the smacks were waltzing and kicking round each other on every possible tack, crossing and re-crossing bows and sterns; sometimes close shaving, out and in, down-the-middle-and-up-again fashion, which, to a landsman, might have been suggestive of the 'bus, cab, and van throng in the neighbourhood of that heart of the world, the bank of england. sounds of hailing and chaffing now began to roll over the north sea from many stentorian lungs. "what cheer? what cheer?" cried some in passing. "hallo, tim! how are 'ee, old man! what luck?" "all right, jim; on'y six trunks." "ha! that's 'cause ye fished up a dead man yesterday." "is that you, ted?" "ay, ay, what's left o' me--worse luck. i thought your mother was goin' to keep you at home this trip to mind the babby." "so she was, boy, but the babby fell into a can o' buttermilk an' got drownded, so i had to come off again, d'ee see?" "what cheer, groggy fox? have 'ee hoisted the blue ribbon yet?" "no, stephen lockley, i haven't, nor don't mean to, but one o' the fleet seems to have hoisted the blue flag." groggy fox pointed to one of the surrounding vessels as he swept past in the _cormorant_. lockley looked round in haste, and, to his surprise, saw floating among the smaller flags, at a short distance, the great twenty-feet flag of a mission vessel, with the letters mdsf (mission to deep-sea fishermen) on it, in white on a blue ground. "she must have lost her reckoning," muttered lockley, as he tried to catch sight of the vessel to which the flag belonged--which was not easy, owing to the crowd of smacks passing to and fro between it and him. just at that moment a hearty cheer was heard to issue from the admiral's smack, the _cherub_. at the same time the boat of the _lively poll_ was launched into the sea, duffy and freeman and another hand tumbled into her, and the skipper had to give his undivided attention to the all-important matter of transhipping the fish. dozens of boats were by that time bobbing like corks on the heaving sea, all making for the attendant steamer. other dozens, which had already reached her, were clinging on--the men heaving the fish-boxes aboard,-while yet others were pushing off from the smacks last arrived to join the busy swarm. among these was the boat of the _fairy_, with dick martin and two men aboard. it was heavily laden--too heavily for such a sea--for their haul on the previous night had been very successful. north sea fishermen are so used to danger that they are apt to despise it. both bryce and martin knew they had too many trunks in the boat, but they thought it a pity to leave five or six behind, and be obliged to make two trips for so small a number, where one might do. besides, they could be careful. and so they were--very careful; yet despite all their care they shipped a good deal of water, and the skipper stood on the deck of the _fairy_ watching them with some anxiety. well he might, for so high were the waves that not only his own boat but all the others kept disappearing and re-appearing continually, as they rose on the crests or sank into the hollows. but skipper bryce had eyes for only one boat. he saw it rise to view and disappear steadily, regularly, until it was about half-way to the steamer; then suddenly it failed to rise, and next moment three heads were seen amid the tumultuous waters where the boat should have been. with a tremendous shout bryce sprang to the tiller and altered the vessel's course, but, as the wind blew, he knew well it was not in his power to render timely aid. that peculiar cry which tells so unmistakably of deadly disaster was raised from the boats nearest to that which had sunk, and they were rowed towards the drowning men, but the boats were heavy and slow of motion. already they were too late, for two out of the three men had sunk to rise no more--dragged down by their heavy boots and winter clothing. only one continued the struggle. it was dick martin. he had grasped an oar, and, being able to swim, kept his head up. the intense cold of the sea, however, would soon have relaxed even his iron grip, and he would certainly have perished, had it not been that the recently arrived mission vessel chanced to be a very short distance to windward of him. a slight touch of the helm sent her swiftly to his side. a rope was thrown. martin caught it. ready hands and eager hearts were there to grasp and rescue. in another moment he was saved, and the vessel swept on to mingle with the other smacks--for martin was at first almost insensible, and could not tell to which vessel of the fleet he belonged. yes, the bad man was rescued, though no one would have sustained much loss by his death; but in yarmouth that night there was one woman, who little thought that she was a widow, and several little ones who knew not that they were fatherless. the other man who perished was an unmarried youth, but he left an invalid mother to lifelong mourning over the insatiable greed of the cold north sea. little note was taken of this event in the fleet. it was, in truth, a by no means unusual disaster. if fish are to be found, fair weather or foul, for the tables on land, lives must be risked and lost in the waters of the sea. loss of life in ferrying the fish being of almost daily occurrence, men unavoidably get used to it, as surgeons do to suffering and soldiers to bloodshed. besides, on such occasions, in the great turmoil of winds and waves, and crowds of trawlers and shouting, it may be only a small portion of the fleet which is at first aware that disaster has occurred, and even these must not, cannot, turn aside from business at such times to think about the woes of their fellow-men. meanwhile dick martin had fallen, as the saying is, upon his feet. he was carried into a neatly furnished cabin, put between warm blankets in a comfortable berth, and had a cup of steaming hot coffee urged upon him by a pleasant-voiced sailor, who, while he inquired earnestly as to how he felt, at the same time thanked the lord fervently that they had been the means of saving his life. chapter eight. tells of more than one surprise. "was that your boat that went down?" shouted groggy fox of the _cormorant_, as he sailed past the _fairy_, after the carrying-steamer had left, and the numerous fishing-smacks were gradually falling into order for another attack on the finny hosts of the sea. they were almost too far apart for the reply to be heard, and possibly bryce's state of mind prevented his raising his voice sufficiently, but it was believed that the answer was "yes." "poor fellows!" muttered fox, who was a man of tender feelings, although apt to feel more for himself than for any one else. "i think dick martin was in the boat," said the mate of the _cormorant_, who stood beside his skipper. "i saw them when they shoved off, and though it was a longish distance, i could make him out by his size, an' the fur cap he wore." "well, the world won't lose much if he's gone," returned fox; "he was a bad lot." it did not occur to the skipper at that time that he himself was nearly, if not quite, as bad a "lot." but bad men are proverbially blind to their own faults. "he was a cross-grained fellow," returned the mate, "specially when in liquor, but i never heard no worse of 'im than that." "didn't you?" said fox; "didn't you hear what they said of 'im at gorleston?--that he tried to do his sister out of a lot o' money as was left her by some cove or other in furrin parts. an' some folk are quite sure that it was him as stole the little savin's o' that poor widdy, mrs mooney, though they can't just prove it agin him. ah, he is a bad lot, an' no mistake. but i may say that o' the whole bilin' o' the martins. look at fred, now." "well, wot of him?" asked the mate, in a somewhat gruff tone. "what of him!" repeated the skipper, "ain't he a hypocrite, with his smooth tongue an' his sly ways, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' now--where is he?" "well, _where_ is he!" demanded the mate, with increasing gruffness. "why, in course nobody knows where he is," retorted the skipper; "that's where it is. no sooner does he get a small windfall--leastwise, his mother gets it--than he cuts the trawlers, an' all his old friends without so much as sayin' `good-bye,' an' goes off to lunnon or somewheres, to set up for a gentleman, i suppose." "i don't believe nothin' o' the sort," returned the mate indignantly. "fred martin may be smooth-tongued and shy if you like, but he's no hypercrite--" "hallo! there's that mission ship on the lee bow," cried fox, interrupting his mate, and going over to the lee side of the smack, whence he could see the vessel with the great blue flag clearly. "port your helm," he added in a deep growl to the man who steered. "i'll give her a wide berth." "if she was the _coper_ you'd steer the other way," remarked the mate, with a laugh. "in course i would," retorted fox, "for there i'd find cheap baccy and brandy." "ay, bad brandy," said the mate; "but, skipper, you can get baccy cheaper aboard the mission ships now than aboard the _coper_." "what! at a shillin' a pound?" "ay, at a shillin' a pound." "i don't believe it." "but it's a fact," returned the mate firmly, "for simon brooks, as was in the short-blue fleet last week, told me it's a noo regulation-they've started the sale o' baccy in the gospel ships, just to keep us from going to the _copers_." "that'll not keep _me_ from going to the _copers_," said groggy fox, with an oath. "nor me," said his mate, with a laugh; "but, skipper, as we are pretty nigh out o' baccy just now, an' as the mission ship is near us, an' the breeze down, i don't see no reason why we shouldn't go aboard an' see whether the reports be true. we go to buy baccy, you know, an' we're not bound to buy everything the shop has to sell! we don't want their religion, an' they can't force it down our throats whether we will or no." groggy fox vented a loud laugh at the bare supposition of such treatment of his throat, admitted that his mate was right, and gave orders to launch the boat. in a few minutes they were rowing over the still heaving but now somewhat calmer sea, for the wind had fallen suddenly, and the smacks lay knocking about at no great distance from each other. it was evident from the bustle on board many of them, and the launching of boats over their bulwarks, that not a few of the men intended to take advantage of this unexpected visit of a mission vessel. no doubt their motives were various. probably some went, like the men of the _cormorant_, merely for baccy; some for medicine; others, perhaps, out of curiosity; while a few, no doubt, went with more or less of desire after the "good tidings," which they were aware had been carried to several of the other fleets that laboured on the same fishing-grounds. whatever the reasons, it was evident that a goodly number of men were making for the vessel with the great blue flag. some had already reached her; more were on their way. the _cormorant's_ boat was among the last to arrive. "what does mdsf stand for?" asked skipper fox, as they drew near. "mission to deep-sea fishermen," answered the mate, whose knowledge on this and other points of the mission were due to his intercourse with his friend simon brooks of the short-blue. "but it means more than that," he continued. "when we are close enough to make 'em out, you'll see little letters _above_ the mdsf which make the words i've just told you, an' there are little letters _below_ the mdsf which make the words mighty deliverer, saviour, friend." "ay! that's a clever dodge," observed groggy fox, who, it need hardly be said, was more impressed with the ingenuity of the device than with the grand truth conveyed. "but i say, mate, they seems to be uncommonly lively aboard of her." this was obviously the case, for by that time the boat of the _cormorant_ had come so near to the vessel that they could not only perceive the actions of those on board, but could hear their voices. the curiosity of skipper fox and his men was greatly roused, for they felt convinced that the mere visit of a passing mission ship did not fully account for the vigorous hand-shakings of those on the deck, and the hearty hailing of newcomers, and the enthusiastic cheers of some at least of the little boats' crews as they pulled alongside. "seems to me as if they've all gone mad," remarked groggy fox, with a sarcastic grin. "i would say they was all drunk, or half-seas over," observed the mate, "if it was a _coper_, but in a gospel ship that's impossible, 'cause they're teetotal, you know. isn't that the boat o' the admiral that's pullin' alongside just now, skipper?" "looks like it, mate. ay, an' that's stephen lockley of the _lively poll_ close astarn of 'im--an' ain't they kickin' up a rumpus now!" fox was right, for when the two little boats referred to ranged alongside of the vessel, and the men scrambled up the side on to her deck, there was an amount of greeting, and hand-shaking, and exclaiming in joyful surprise, which threw all previous exhibitions in that way quite into the shade, and culminated in a mighty cheer, the power of which soft people with shore-going throats and lungs and imaginations cannot hope to emulate or comprehend! the cheer was mildly repeated with mingled laughter when the crowd on deck turned to observe the arrival of the _cormorant's_ boat. "why, it's the skipper o' the _ironclad_!" exclaimed a voice. "no, it's not. it's the skipper o' the _cormorant_," cried another. "what cheer? what cheer, groggy fox?" cried a third, as the boat swooped alongside, and several strong arms were extended. "who'd have looked for _you_ here? there ain't no schnapps." "all right, mates," replied fox, with an apologetic smile, as he alighted on the deck and looked round; "i've come for _baccy_." a short laugh greeted this reply, but it was instantly checked, for at the moment fred martin stepped forward, grasped the skipper's horny hand, and shook it warmly, as well as powerfully, for fred was a muscular man, and had fully recovered his strength. "you've come to the right shop for baccy," he said; "i've got plenty o' that, besides many other things much better. i bid you heartily welcome on board of the _sunbeam_ in the name of the lord!" for a few seconds the skipper of the _cormorant_ could not utter a word. he gazed at fred martin with his mouth partially, and his eyes wide, open. the thought that he was thus cordially received by the very man whose character he had so lately and so ungenerously traduced had something, perhaps, to do with his silence. "a-are--are _you_ the skipper o' this here wessel!" he stammered. "ay, through god's goodness i am." "a _mission_ wessel!" said fox, his amazement not a whit abated as he looked round. "just so, a gospel ship," answered fred, giving the skipper another shake of the hand. "you didn't mistake it for a _coper_, did 'ee?" asked david duffy, who was one of the visitors. the laugh which followed this question drowned groggy fox's reply. "and you'll be glad to hear," said fred, still addressing fox, "that the _sunbeam_ is a new mission ship, and has been appointed to do service for god in _this_ fleet and no other; so you'll always be able to have books and baccy, mitts, helmets, comforters, medicines, and, best of all, bibles and advice for body and soul, free gratis when you want 'em." "but where's the doctor to give out the medicines," asked fox, who began to moderate his gaze as he recovered self-possession. "well, mate," answered fred, with a bashful air, "i am doctor as well as skipper. indeed, i'm parson too--a sort of jack-of-all-trades! i'm not full fledged of course, but on the principle, i fancy, that `half a loaf is better than no bread,' i've been sent here after goin' through a short course o' trainin' in surgery--also in divinity; something like city missionaries and scripture-readers; not that trainin', much or little, would fit any man for the great work unless he had the love of the master in his heart. but i trust i have that." "you have, fred, thank god!" said the admiral of the fleet. "and now, skipper fox," continued fred facetiously, "as i'm a sort of doctor, you must allow me to prescribe something for your complaint. here, boy," he added, hailing one of his crew, "fetch skipper fox a draught o' that physic--the brown stuff that you keep in the kettle." "ay, ay, sir," answered a youthful voice, and in another minute pat stiver forced his way through the crowd, bearing in his hand a large cup or bowl of coffee. "it's not exactly the tipple i'm used to," said fox, accepting the cup with a grin, and wisely resolving to make the best of circumstances, all the more readily that he observed other visitors had been, or still were, enjoying the same beverage. "howsever, it's not to be expected that sick men shall have their physic exactly to their likin', so i thank 'ee all the same, dr martin!" this reply was received with much approval, and the character of groggy fox immediately experienced a considerable rise in the estimation of his comrades of the fleet. attention was drawn from him just then by the approach of another boat. "there is some genuine surgeon's work coming to you in that boat, fred, if i mistake not," remarked stephen lockley, as he stood beside his old friend. "hasn't that man in the stern got his head tied up?" "looks like it." "by the way, what of your uncle, dick martin?" asked the admiral. "it was you that picked him up, wasn't it?" this reference to the sad event which had occurred that morning solemnised the fishermen assembled on the _sunbeam's_ deck, and they stood listening with sympathetic expressions as fred narrated what he had seen of the catastrophe, and told that his uncle was evidently nothing the worse of it, and was lying asleep in the cabin, where everything had been done for his recovery and comfort. in the boat which soon came alongside was a fisherman who had met with a bad accident some days before. a block tackle from aloft had fallen on his head and cut it severely. his mates had bound it up in rough-and-ready fashion; but the wound had bled freely, and the clotted blood still hung about his hair. latterly the wound had festered, and gave him agonising pain. his comrades being utterly ignorant as to the proper treatment, could do nothing for him. indeed, the only effectual thing that could be done was to send the poor man home. this sudden and unexpected appearance of one of the mission ships was therefore hailed as a godsend, for it was well-known that these vessels contained medicines, and it was believed that their skippers were more or less instructed in the healing art. in this belief they were right; for in addition to the well-appointed medicine-chest, each vessel has a skipper who undergoes a certain amount of instruction, and possesses a practical and plain book of directions specially prepared under the supervision of the board of trade for the use of captains at sea. one can imagine, therefore, what a relief it was to this poor wounded man to be taken down into the cabin and have his head at last attended to by one who "knew what he was about." the operation of dressing was watched with the deepest interest and curiosity by the fishermen assembled there, for it was their first experience of the value, even in temporal matters, of a gospel ship. their ears were open, too, as well as their eyes, and they listened with much interest to fred martin as he tried, after a silent prayer for the holy spirit's influence, to turn his first operation to spiritual account in his master's interest. "tell me if i hurt you," he said, observing that his patient winced a little when he was removing the bandage. "go on," said the man quietly. "i ain't a babby to mind a touch of pain." the cabin being too small to hold them all, some of the visitors clustered round the open skylight, and gazed eagerly down, while a few who could not find a point of vantage contented themselves with listening. even dick martin was an observer at that operation, for, having been roused by the bustle around him, he raised himself on an elbow, and looking down from his berth, could both hear and see. "there now," said fred martin, when at last the bandage was removed and the festering mass laid bare. "hand the scissors, pat." pat stiver, who was assistant-surgeon on that occasion, promptly handed his chief the desired instrument, and stood by for further orders. "i'll soon relieve you," continued fred, removing the clotted hair, etcetera, in a few seconds, and applying a cleansing lotion. "i cut it off, you see, just as the great physician cuts away our sins, and washes us clean in the fountain of his own blood. you feel better already, don't you?" "there's no doubt about that," replied the patient looking up with a great sigh of relief that told far more than words could convey. we will not record all that was said and done upon that occasion. let it suffice to say that the man's wound was put in a fair way of recovery without the expense and prolonged suffering of a trip home. thereafter, as a breeze was beginning to blow which bid fair to become a "fishing breeze," it became necessary for the visitors to leave in haste, but not before a few books, tracts, and worsted mittens had been distributed, with an earnest invitation from the skipper of the _sunbeam_ to every one to repeat the visit whenever calm weather should permit, and especially on sundays, when regular services would be held on deck or in the hold. on this occasion bob lumpy and pat stiver had met and joined hands in great delight, not unmingled with surprise. "well, who'd ever have expected to find _you_ here?" said bob. "ah, who indeed?" echoed pat. "the fact is, i came to be near _you_, bob." "but how did it happen? who got you the sitivation? look alive! don't be long-winded, i see they're gittin' our boat ready." "this is 'ow it was, bob. i was shovin' eve about the roads in the bath-chair, as you know i've bin doin' ever since i entered your service, w'en a gen'lem'n come up and axed all about us. `would ye like a sitivation among the north sea fishermen?' says he. `the very ticket,' says i. `come to lun'on to-night, then,' says he. `unpossible,' says i, fit to bu'st wi' disappointment; `'cos i must first shove miss eve home, an' git hold of a noo shover to take my place.' `all right,' says he, laughin'; `come when you can. here's my address.' so away i goes; got a trustworthy, promisin' young feller as i've know'd a long time to engage for miss eve, an' off to lun'on, an'-here i am!" "time's up," cried the admiral at this point, shaking hands with fred martin; while bob lumsden sprang from the side of his little friend, and there was a general move towards the boats. "good-bye, mate," said skipper fox, holding out his hand. "stop, friends," cried fred, in a loud voice; "that's not the way we part on board o' the _sunbeam_." taking off his hat and looking up,--a sign that all understood, for they immediately uncovered and bowed their heads,--the missionary skipper, in a few brief but earnest words, asked for a blessing on the work which he had been privileged that day to begin, that satan might be foiled, and the name of jesus be made precious among the fishermen of the north sea. thereafter the boats scattered towards their various smacks, their crews rejoicing in this latest addition to the fleet. even groggy fox gave it as his opinion that there might be worse things after all in the world than "mission wessels!" chapter nine. beginning of the good work. the breeze which had begun to blow freshened as the day advanced, and the admiral, directing his course to the nor'-east, made for the neighbourhood of the dogger bank. having reached what he deemed suitable fishing-ground, he changed his course and gave the signal to "put to." with the precision of well-trained troops the smacks obeyed, and let down their trawls. the _sunbeam_ also let down her net, and shaped her course like the rest, thus setting an example of attention to secular duty. she trawled for fish so as to help to pay expenses, until such time as suitable weather and opportunity offered for the main and higher duty of fishing for men. the first haul of the mission vessel was a great success, prophetic of the great successes in store, thought her skipper, as the cod-end was finally swung inboard in an almost bursting condition. when the lower end was opened, and the living fountain of fish gushed over the deck, there was a general exclamation of satisfaction, mingled with thanksgiving, from the crew, for fishes great and small were there in abundance of every sort that swims in the north sea. "all sorts and conditions of men" leaped into fred martin's mind, for he was thinking of higher things at the moment. "a good beginning and a good omen," he murmured. "_wot_ a haul!" exclaimed pat stiver, who was nearly swept off his legs, and to whom the whole thing was an entirely new experience. "use your eyes less and your hands more, my boy," said fink, the mate, setting the example by catching hold of a magnificent turbot that would have graced a lord mayor's feast, and commencing to clean it. pat was by no means a lazy boy. recovering from his surprise, he set to work with all the vigour of a man of purpose, and joined the rest of the crew in their somewhat disagreeable duty. they wrought with such goodwill that their contribution of trunks to the general supply was the largest put on board the steamer next day. calm and storm sometimes succeed each other rapidly on the north sea. it was so on the present occasion. before the nets could be cleared and let down for another take, the breeze had died away. the weather that was unsuited, however, for fishing, was very suitable for "ferrying" to the steamer; and when that all-important duty was done, the comparative calm that prevailed was just the thing for the work of the _sunbeam_. well aware of this, manx bradley and other like-minded skippers, kept close to the mission ship, whose great blue flag was waving welcome to all. boats were soon pulling towards her, their crews being influenced by a great variety of motives; and many men who, but for her presence, would have been gambling or drinking, or oppressed with having nothing to do, or whistling for a breeze, found an agreeable place of meeting on her deck. on this occasion a considerable number of men who had received slight injuries from accidents came on board, so that fred had to devote much of his time to the medical part of his work, while fink, his mate, superintended the distribution of what may be styled worsted-works and literature. "hallo, jim freeman!" said fred, looking round from the medicine shelves before which he stood searching for some drug; "you're the very man i want to see. want to tempt you away from skipper lockley, an' ship with me in the _sunbeam_." "i'm not worth much for anybody just now," said freeman, holding up his right hand, which was bound in a bloody handkerchief. "see, i've got what'll make me useless for weeks to come, i fear." "never fear, jim," said fred, examining the injured member, which was severely bruised and lacerated. "how got ye that?" "carelessness, fred. the old story--clapped my hand on the gunwale o' the boat when we were alongside the carrier." "i'd change with 'ee, jim, if i could," growled joe stubley, one of the group of invalids who filled the cabin at the time. there was a general laugh, as much at joe's lugubrious visage as at his melancholy tone. "why, what's wrong with _you_, stubs?" asked fred. "dt," remarked the skipper of the _cormorant_, who could hardly speak because of a bad cold, and who thus curtly referred to the drunkard's complaint of _delirium tremens_. "nothin' o' the sort!" growled joe. "i've not seed a _coper_ for a week or two. brandy's more in your way, groggy fox, than in mine. no, it's mulligrumps o' some sort that's the matter wi' me." "indeed," said fred, as he continued to dress the bruised hand. "what does it feel like, stubs?" "feel like?" exclaimed the unhappy man, in a tone that told of anguish, "it feels like red-hot thunder rumblin' about inside o' me. just as if a great conger eel was wallopin' about an' a-dinin' off my witals." "horrible, but not incurable," remarked fred. "i'll give you some pills, boy, that'll soon put you all to rights. now, then, who's next?" while another of the invalids stepped forward and revealed his complaints, which were freely commented on by his more or less sympathetic mates, fink had opened out a bale of worsted comforters, helmets, and mitts on deck, and, assisted by pat stiver, was busily engaged in distributing them. "here you are--a splendid pair of mitts, jack," he said, tossing the articles to a huge man, who received them with evident satisfaction. "too small, i fear," said jack, trying to force his enormous hand into one of them. "hold on! don't bu'st it!" exclaimed pat sharply; there's all sorts and sizes here. "there's a pair, now, that would fit goliath." "ah, them's more like it, little 'un," cried the big fisherman. "no more sea-blisters now, thanks to the ladies on shore," he added, as he drew the soft mittens over his sadly scarred wrists. "now then, who wants this?" continued fink, holding up a worsted helmet; "splendid for the back o' the head and neck, with a hole in front to let the eyes and nose out." "hand over," cried david duffy. "i say, wot's this inside?" exclaimed one of the men, drawing a folded paper from one of his mittens and opening it. "read, an' you'll maybe find out," suggested the mate. "`god, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy,'" said the fisherman, reading from the paper. "just so," said fink, "that's what the lady as made the mitts wants to let you know so's you may larn to think more o' the giver than the gifts." "i wish," said another of the men testily, as he pulled a tract from inside one of his mitts, and flung it on the deck, "i wish as how these same ladies would let religion alone, an' send us them things without it. we want the mitts, an' comforters, an' helmets, but we don't want their humbuggin' religion." "shame, dick!" said david duffy, as he wound a comforter round his thick neck. "you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. we're bound to take the things as they've been sent to us, an' say `thank 'ee.'" "if it wasn't for what you call `humbuggin' religion,'" remarked fink, looking dick straight in the face, "it's little that we'd see o' comforters, or books, or mission ships on the north sea. why, d'ee think that selfishness, or greed, or miserliness, or indifference, or godlessness would ever take the trouble to send all them things to us? can't you understand that the love of god in the heart makes men and women wish to try to keep god's commandments by bein' kind to one another, an' considering the poor, an' feedin' the hungry, an' clothin' the naked?" "right you are, fink," said lockley, with a nod of approval, which was repeated by several of those around. "but, i say, you spoke of books, mate," remarked bob lumsden, who came forward at the moment, much to the satisfaction of his little friend pat stiver; "you han't showed us any books yet." "one thing at a time, boy," returned the mate. "we've got lots o' books too. go below, pat, an' ask the skipper to send up that big case o' books; say i've about finished givin' out the mitts an' mufflers." "just so, boy," put in his friend bob; "say that the mate has distributed the soft goods, an' wants some hard facts now." "don't be cheeky, you young rascal!" cried the mate, hitting bob on the nose with a well aimed pair of mittens. "thankee! on'y them things was meant for the hands not for the nose. howsever, i won't quarrel with a gift, no matter what way it comes to me," retorted bob, picking up the mitts and putting them in his pocket. while he was speaking two men brought on deck a large box, which was quickly opened by the mate. the men crowded around with much interest and curiosity, for it was the first batch of books that had ever reached that fleet. the case was stuffed to the lid with old periodicals and volumes, of every shape, and size, and colour. "w'y, they've bin an' sent us the whole british museum, i do believe!" exclaimed david duffy, whose younger brother chanced to be a porter in our great storehouse of literature. "here you are, lads!" cried fink, going down on his knees and pulling out the contents. "wollum of _the leisure hour, sunday magazine_, odd numbers o' _the quiver_, wollum of _the boy's own paper, young england, home words_, and _good words_ (to smother our bad words, you know). there you are, enough to make doctors or professors of every man jack o' you, if you'll on'y take it all in." "professors!" growled joe stubley, who had come on deck, still suffering from his strange internal complaint. "more like to make fools on us. wot do _we_ want wi' books and larnin'!" "nothin' wotsumdever," answered pat stiver, with a look of the most patronising insolence. "you're right, joe, quite right--as you always are. smacksmen has got no souls, no brains, no minds, no hintellects." "they've got no use for books, bless you! all they wants is wittles an' grog--" the boy pulled up at this point, for stubley made a rush at him, but pat was too quick for him. "well said, youngster; give it him hot," cried one of the men approvingly, while the others laughed; but they were too much interested in the books to be diverted from these for more than a few seconds. many of them were down on their knees beside the mate, who continued in a semi-jocular strain--"now then, take your time, my hearties; lots o' books here, and lots more where these came from. the british public will never run dry. i'm cheap john! here they are, all for nothin', _on loan_; small wollum--the title ain't clear, ah!--_the little man as lost his mother_; big wollum--_shakespeare; pickwick_; books by hesba stretton; almanac; missionary williams; _polar seas an' regions; pilgrim's progress_--all sorts to suit all tastes--catechisms, noo testaments, _robinson crusoe_." "hold on there, mate; let's have a look at that!" cried bob lumsden eagerly--so eagerly that the mate handed the book to him with a laugh. "come here, pat," whispered bob, dragging his friend out of the crowd to a retired spot beside the boat of the _sunbeam_, which lay on deck near the mainmast. "did you ever read _robinson crusoe_?" "no, never--never so much as 'eard of 'im." "you can read, i suppose?" "oh yes; i can read well enough." "what have you read?" demanded bob. "on'y bits of old noospapers," replied pat, with a look of contempt, "an' i don't like readin'." "don't like it? of course you don't, you ignorant curmudgeon, if noospapers is all you've read. now, pat, i got this book, not for myself but a purpus for _you_." "thankee for nothin'," said pat; "i doesn't want it." "doesn't want it!" repeated bob. "d'ee know that this is the very best book as ever was written?" "you seems pretty cock-sure," returned pat, who was in a contradictory mood that day; "but you know scholards sometimes differ in their opinions about books." "pat i'll be hard upon you just now if you don't look out!" said bob seriously. "howsever, you're not so far wrong, arter all. people _does_ differ about books, so i'll only say that _robinson crusoe_ is the best book as was ever written, in _my_ opinion, an' so it'll be in yours, too, when you have read it; for there's shipwrecks, an' desert islands, an' savages, an' scrimmages, an' footprints, an'--see here! that's a pictur of him in his hairy dress, wi' his goat, an' parrot, an' the umbrellar as he made hisself, a-lookin' at the footprint on the sand." the picture, coupled with bob lumsden's graphic description, had the desired effect. his little friend's interest was aroused, and pat finally accepted the book, with a promise to read it carefully when he should find time. "but of that," added pat, "i ain't got too much on hand." "you've got all that's of it--four and twenty hours, haven't you?" demanded his friend. "true, bob, but it's the _spare_ time i'm short of. howsever, i'll do my best." while this literary conversation was going on beside the boat, the visitors to the _sunbeam_ had been provided with a good supply of food for the mind as well as ease and comfort for the body, and you may be very sure that the skipper and his men, all of whom were christians, did not fail in regard to the main part of their mission, namely, to drop in seeds of truth as they found occasion, which might afterwards bear fruit to the glory of god and the good of man. chapter ten. the first fight and victory. there was on board the _sunbeam_, on this her first voyage, a tall, broad-shouldered, but delicate-looking young man, with a most woebegone expression and a yellowish-green countenance. to look at him was to pronounce him a melancholy misanthrope--a man of no heart or imagination. never before, probably, did a man's looks so belie his true character. this youth was an enthusiast; an eager, earnest, hearty christian, full of love to his master and to all mankind, and a student for the ministry. but john binning had broken down from over-study, and at the time we introduce him to the reader he was still further "down" with that most horrible complaint, sea-sickness. even when in the depth of his woe at this time, some flashes of binning's true spirit gleamed fitfully through his misery. one of those gleams was on the occasion of dick martin being rescued. up to that period, since leaving yarmouth, binning had lain flat on his back. on hearing of the accident and the rescue he had turned out manfully and tried to speak to the rescued man, but indescribable sensations quickly forced him to retire. again, when the first visitors began to sing one of his favourite hymns, he leaped up with a thrill of emotion in his heart, but somehow the thrill went to his stomach, and he collapsed. at last however, neptune appeared to take pity on the poor student. his recovery--at least as regarded the sea-sickness--was sudden. he awoke, on the morning after the opening of the case of books, quite restored. he could hardly believe it. his head no longer swam; other parts of him no longer heaved. the first intimation that skipper martin had of the change was john binning bursting into a hymn with the voice of a stentor. he rose and donned his clothes. "you've got your sea legs at last, sir," said fred martin, as binning came on deck and staggered towards him with a joyful salutation. "yes, and i've got my sea appetite, too, mr martin. will breakfast be ready soon?" "just goin' on the table, sir. i like to hear that question. it's always a sure and good sign." at that moment pat stiver appeared walking at an acute angle with the deck, and bearing a dish of smoking turbot. he dived, as it were, into the cabin without breaking the dish, and set it on the very small table, on which tea, bread, butter, and a lump of beef were soon placed beside it. to this sumptuous repast the skipper, the student, and the mate sat down. after a very brief prayer for blessing by the skipper, they set to work with a zest which perhaps few but seafaring men can fully understand. the student, in particular, became irrepressible after the first silent and ravenous attack. "oh!" he exclaimed, "the sea! the sea! the open sea! if you are ill, go to sea. if you are fagged, go to sea! if you are used up, seedy, washed-out, miserable, go to sea! another slice of that turbot, please. thanks." "mind your cup, sir," said the skipper, a few minutes after, in a warning voice; "with a breeze like this it's apt to pitch into your lap. she lays over a good deal because i've got a press of sail on her this morning." "more than usual?" asked binning. "yes. you see i'm trying to beat a _coper_ that's close ahead of us just now. the _sunbeam_ is pretty swift on her heels, an' if the breeze holds--ha! you've got it, sir?" he certainly had got it, in his lap--where neither cup, saucer, nor tea should be. "you are right, skipper, and if your ready hands had not prevented it i should have got the teapot and sugar-basin also. but no matter. as i've had enough now, i'll go on deck and walk myself dry." on deck a new subject of interest occupied the mind of the rapidly reviving student, for the race between the _sunbeam_ and the _coper_ was not yet decided. they were trying which would be first to reach a group of smacks that were sailing at a considerable distance ahead on the port bow. at first the _coper_ seemed to have the best of it, but afterwards the breeze freshened and the _sunbeam_ soon left it far astern. seeing that the race was lost, the floating grog-shop changed her course. "ah, she'll steer for other fleets where there's no opposition," remarked the skipper. "to win our first race is a good omen," said john binning, with much satisfaction. "may the _copers_ be thus beaten from every fleet until they are beaten from the north sea altogether!" "amen to that," said fred martin heartily. "you feel well enough now, sir, to think of undertaking service to-morrow, don't you?" "think of it, my friend! i have done more than think," exclaimed the student; "i have been busy while in bed preparing for the sabbath, and if the master sends us calm weather i will surely help in the good work you have begun so well." and the master did send calm weather--so calm and so beautiful that the glassy sea and fresh air and bright blue sky seemed typical of the quiet "rest that remaineth for the people of god." indeed, the young student was led to choose that very text for his sermon, ignoring all his previous preparation, so impressed was he with the suitability of the theme. and when afterwards the boats of the various smacks came trooping over the sea, and formed a long tail astern of the _sunbeam_, and when the capacious hold was cleared, and packed as full as possible with rugged weather-beaten men, who looked at the tall pale youth with their earnest inquiring gaze, like hungering men who had come there for something and would not be content to depart with nothing, the student still felt convinced that his text was suitable, although not a single word or idea regarding it had yet struggled in his mind to get free. in fact the young man's mind was like a pent-up torrent, calm for the moment, but with tremendous and ever-increasing force behind the flood-gates, for he had before him men, many of whom had scarcely ever heard the gospel in their lives, whose minds were probably free from the peculiar prejudices of landsmen, whose lives were spent in harsh, hard, cheerless toil, and who stood sorely in need of spiritual rest and deliverance from the death of sin. many of these men had come there only out of curiosity; a few because they loved the lord, and some because they had nothing better to do. groggy fox was among them. he had come as before for "baccy," forgetting that the weed was not sold on sundays, and had been prevailed on to remain to the service. dick martin was also there, in a retired and dark corner. he was curious to know, he remarked, what the young man had to talk about. it was not till after prayer had been offered by the student that god opened the flood-gates. then the stream gushed forth. "it is," said the preacher--in tones not loud, but so deep and impressive that every soul was at once enthralled--"it is to the servants of the devil that the grand message comes. not to the good, and pure, and holy is the blessed gospel or good news sent, but, to the guilty, the sin-stricken, the bad, and the sin-weary god has sent by his blessed spirit the good and glorious news that there is deliverance in jesus christ for the chief of sinners. deliverance from sin changes godless men into the children of god, and there is _rest_ for these. do i need to tell toilers of the deep how sweet rest is to the tired-out body? surely not, because you have felt it, and know all about it better than i do. but it _is_ needful to tell you about rest for the soul, because some of you have never felt it, and know not what it is. is there no man before me who has, some time or other, committed some grievous sin, whose soul groans under the burden of the thought, and who would give all he possesses if he had never put out his hand to commit that sin? is there no one here under the power of that deadly monster-strong drink--who, remembering the days when he was free from bondage, would sing this day with joy unspeakable if he could only escape?" "yes," shouted a strong voice from a dark corner of the hold. "thank god!" murmured another voice from a different quarter, for there were men in that vessel's hold who were longing for the salvation of other as well as their own souls. no notice was taken of the interrupters. the preacher only paused for an instant as if to emphasise the words--"jesus christ is able to save to the _uttermost_ all who come to god through him." we will not dwell on this subject further than to say that the prayer which followed the sermon was fervent and short, for that student evidently did not think that he should be "heard for his much speaking!" the prayer which was thereafter offered by the admiral of the fleet was still shorter, very much to the point, and replete with nautical phrases, but an uncalled-for petition, which followed that, was briefest of all. it came in low but distinct tones from a dark corner of the hold, and had a powerful effect on the audience; perhaps, also, on the hearer of prayer. it was merely--"god have mercy on me." whatever influence might have resulted from the preaching and the prayer on that occasion, there could be no doubt whatever as to the singing. it was tremendous! the well-known powers of wesleyan throats would have been lost in it. saint paul's cathedral organ could not have drowned it. many of the men had learned at least the tunes of the more popular of sankey's hymns, first from the admiral and a few like-minded men, then from each other. now every man was furnished with an orange-coloured booklet. some could read; some could not. it mattered little. their hearts had been stirred by that young student, or rather by the student's god. their voices, trained to battle with the tempest, formed a safety-valve to their feelings. "the lifeboat" was, appropriately, the first hymn chosen. manx bradley led with a voice like a trumpet, for joy intensified his powers. fred martin broke forth with tremendous energy. it was catching. even groggy fox was overcome. with eyes shut, mouth wide open, and book upside down, he absolutely howled his determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore." but skipper fox was not the only man whose spirit was touched on that occasion. many of the boats clung to the mission vessel till the day was nearly past, for their crews were loath to part. new joys, new hopes, new sensations had been aroused. before leaving, dick martin took john binning aside, and in a low but firm voice said--"you're right, sir. a grievous sin _does_ lie heavy on me. i robbed mrs mooney, a poor widdy, of her little bag o' savin's--twenty pounds it was." the latter part of this confession was accidentally overheard by bob lumsden. he longed to hear more, but bob had been taught somehow that eavesdropping is a mean and dishonourable thing. with manly determination, therefore, he left the spot, but immediately sought and found his little friend pat stiver, intent on relieving his feelings. "what d'ee think, pat?" he exclaimed, in a low whisper, but with indignation in his eye and tone. "i ain't thinkin' at all," said pat. "would you believe it, pat?" continued bob, "i've just heerd that scoun'rel dick martin say that it _was_ him as stole the money from mrs mooney--from the mother of our eve!" "you _don't_ say so!" exclaimed pat, making his eyes remarkably wide and round. "yes, i does, an' i've long suspected him. whether he was boastin' or not i can't tell, an' it do seem strange that he should boast of it to the young parson--leastwise, unless it was done to spite him. but now mark me, pat stiver, i'll bring that old sinner to his marrow-bones before long, and make him disgorge too, if he hain't spent it all. i give you leave to make an irish stew o' my carcase if i don't. ay, ay, sir!" the concluding words of bob lumsden's speech were in reply to an order from skipper lockley to haul the boat alongside. in a few minutes more the mission ship was forsaken by her strange sabbath congregation, and left with all the fleet around her floating quietly on the tranquil sea. chapter eleven. a consultation, a feast, and a plot. there was--probably still is--a coffee-tavern in gorleston where, in a cleanly, cheerful room, a retired fisherman and his wife, of temperance principles, supplied people with those hot liquids which are said to cheer without inebriating. here, by appointment, two friends met to discuss matters of grave importance. one was bob lumsden, the other his friend and admirer pat stiver. having asked for and obtained two large cups of coffee and two slices of buttered bread for some ridiculously small sum of money, they retired to the most distant corner of the room, and, turning their backs on the counter, began their discussion in low tones. being early in the day, the room had no occupants but themselves and the fisherman's wife, who busied herself in cleaning and arranging plates, cups, and saucers, etcetera, for expected visitors. "pat," said bob, sipping his coffee with an appreciative air, "i've turned a total abstainer." "w'ich means?" inquired pat. "that i don't drink nothin' at all," replied bob. "but you're a-drinkin' now!" said pat. "you know what i mean, you small willain; i drink nothin' with spirits in it." "well, i don't see what you gains by that, bob, for i heerd fred martin say you was nat'rally `full o' spirit,' so abstainin' 'll make no difference." "pat," said bob sternly, "if you don't clap a stopper on your tongue, i'll wollop you." pat became grave at once. "well, d'ee know, bob," he said, with an earnest look, "i do b'lieve you are right. you've always seemed to me as if you had a sort o' dissipated look, an' would go to the bad right off if you gave way to drink. yes, you're right, an' to prove my regard for you i'll become a total abstainer too--but, nevertheless, i _can't_ leave off drinkin'." "can't leave off drinkin'!" echoed bob. pat shook his head. "no--can't. 'taint possible." "why, wot _do_ you mean?" "well, bob, i mean that as i've never yet begun to drink, it ain't possible for me to leave it off, d'ee see, though i was to try ever so hard. howsever, i'll become an abstainer all the same, just to keep company along wi' you." bob lumsden gave a short laugh, and then, resuming his earnest air, said-"pat, i've found out that dick martin, the scoun'rel, has bin to mrs mooney's hut again, an' now i'm sartin sure it was him as stole the 'ooman's money--not because i heerd him say so to mr binning, but because eve told me she saw him flattenin' his ugly nose against her window-pane last night, an' recognised him at once for the thief. moreover, he opened the door an' looked into the room, but seein' that he had given eve a terrible fright, he drew back smartly an' went away." "the willain!" exclaimed pat stiver, snapping his teeth as if he wanted to bite, and doubling up his little fists. it was evident that bob's news had taken away all his tendency to jest. "now it's plain to me," continued bob, "that the willain means more mischief. p'r'aps he thinks the old 'ooman's got more blunt hid away in her chest, or in the cupboard. anyhow, he's likely to frighten poor eve out of her wits, so it's my business to stop his little game. the question is, how is it to be done. d'ee think it would be of any use to commoonicate wi' the police?" the shaking of pat stiver's head was a most emphatic answer. "no," said he, "wotiver you do, have nothin' to do wi' the p'leece. they're a low-minded, pig-headed set, wi' their `move on's,' an' their `now then, little un's;' an' their grabbin's of your collars, without no regard to w'ether they're clean or not, an' their--" "let alone the police, pat," interrupted his friend, "but let's have your adwice about what should be done." after a moment's consideration, the small boy advised that mrs mooney's hut should be watched. "in course," he said, "dick martin ain't such a fool as to go an' steal doorin' the daytime, so we don't need to begin till near dark. you are big an' strong enough now, bob, to go at a man like dick an' floor him wi a thumpin' stick." "scarcely," returned bob, with a gratified yet dubious shake of his head. "i'm game to try, but it won't do to risk gettin' the worst of it in a thing o' this sort." "well, but if i'm there with another thumpin' stick to back you up," said pat, "you'll have no difficulty wotsumdever. an' then, if we should need help, ain't the `blue boar' handy, an' there's always a lot o' hands there ready for a spree at short notice? now, my adwice is that we go right off an' buy two thumpin' sticks--yaller ones, wi' big heads like jack the giant killer--get 'em for sixpence apiece. a heavy expense, no doubt, but worth goin' in for, for the sake of eve mooney. and when, in the words o' the old song, the shades of evenin' is closin' o'er us, we'll surround the house of eve, and `wait till the brute rolls by!'" "you're far too poetical, pat, for a practical man, said his friend. howsomediver, i think, on the whole, your adwice is not bad, so well try it on. but wot are we to do till the shades of evenin' comes on?" "amoose ourselves," answered pat promptly. "h'm! might do worse," returned his friend. "i s'pose you know i've got to be at widow martin's to take tea wi' fred an' his bride on their return from their weddin' trip. i wonder if i might take you with me, pat. you're small, an' i suppose you don't eat much." "oh, don't i, though?" exclaimed pat. "well, no matter. it would be very jolly. we'd have a good blow-out, you know; sit there comfortably together till it began to git dark, and then start off to--to--" "go in an' win," suggested the little one. having thus discussed their plans and finished their coffee, the two chivalrous lads went off to yarmouth and purchased two of the most formidable cudgels they could find, of the true jack-the-giant-killer type, with which they retired to the denes to "amoose" themselves. evening found them hungry and hearty at the tea-table of mrs martin-and really, for the table of a fisherman's widow, it was spread with a very sumptuous repast; for it was a great day in the history of the martin family. no fewer than three mrs martins were seated round it. there was old granny martin, who consented to quit her attic window on that occasion and take the head of the table, though she did so with a little sigh, and a soft remark that, "it would be sad if he were to come when she was not watching." then there was widow martin, fred's mother--whose bad leg, by the way, had been quite cured by her legacy. and lastly, there was pretty mrs isa martin, fred's newly-married wife. besides these there were skipper lockley of the _lively poll_, and his wife martha--for it will be remembered martha was cousin to isa, and stephen's smack chanced to be in port at this time as well as the _sunbeam_ and the _fairy_, alias the _ironclad_, which last circumstance accounts for dick martin being also on shore. but dick was not invited to this family gathering, for the good reason that he had not shown face since landing, and no one seemed to grieve over his absence, with the exception of poor old granny, whose love for her "wandering boy" was as strong and unwavering as was her love to the husband, for whose coming she had watched so long. bob lumsden, it may be remarked, was one of the guests, because lockley was fond of him; and pat stiver was there because bob was fond of _him_! both were heartily welcomed. besides the improvement in mrs martin's health, there was also vast improvement in the furniture and general appearance of the attic since the arrival of the legacy. "it was quite a windfall," remarked mrs lockley, handing in her cup for more tea. "true, martha, though i prefer to call it a godsend," said mrs martin. "you see it was gettin' so bad, what wi' standin' so long at the tub, an' goin' about wi' the clo'es, that i felt as if i should break down altogether, i really did; but now i've been able to rest it i feel as if it was going to get quite strong again, and that makes me fit to look after mother far better. have some more tea, granny!" a mumbled assent and a pleased look showed that the old woman was fully alive to what was going on. "hand the butter to isa, pat. thankee," said the ex-washerwoman. "what a nice little boy your friend is, bob lumpy! i'm so glad you thought of bringin' him. he quite puts me in mind of what my boy fred was at his age--on'y a trifle broader, an' taller, an stouter." "a sort of lock-stock-an'-barrel difference, mother," said fred, laughing. "i dun know what you mean by your blocks, stocks, an' barrels," returned mrs martin, "but pat is a sight milder in the face than you was, an i'm sure he's a better boy." the subject of this remark cocked his ears and winked gently with one eye to his friend bob, with such a sly look that the blooming bride, who observed it, went off into a shriek of laughter. "an' only to think," continued mrs martin, gazing in undisguised admiration at her daughter-in-law, "that my fred--who seems as if on'y yesterday he was no bigger than pat, should have got isa wentworth--the best lass in all gorleston--for a wife! you're a lucky boy!" "right you are," responded fred, with enthusiasm. "i go wi' you there, mother, but i'm more than a lucky boy--i'm a highly favoured one, and i thank god for the precious gift; and also for that other gift, which is second only to isa, the command of a gospel ship on the north sea." a decided chuckle, which sounded like a choke, from granny, fortunately called for attentions from the bride at this point. "but do 'ee really think your mission smack will do much good?" asked martha lockley, who was inclined to scepticism. "i am sure of it," replied fred emphatically. "why, we've done some good work already, though we have bin but a short time wi' the fleet. i won't speak of ourselves, but just look at what has bin done in the way of saving drunkards and swearers by the _cholmondeley_ in the short-blue fleet, and by the old _ensign_ in the fleet started by mr burdett-coutts, the _columbia_ fleet, and in the other fleets that have got gospel ships. it is not too much to say that there are hundreds of men now prayin' to god, singin' the praises o' the lamb, an' servin' their owners better than they ever did before, who not long ago were godless drunkards and swearers." "men are sometimes hypocrites," objected martha; "how d'ee know that they are honest, or that it will last?" "hypocrites?" exclaimed fred, pulling a paper hastily from his pocket and unfolding it. "i think you'll admit that sharp men o' bussiness are pretty good judges o' hypocrites as well as of good men. listen to what one of the largest firms of smack-owners says: `our men have been completely revolutionised, and we gladly become subscribers of ten guineas to the funds of the mission.' another firm says, `what we have stated does not convey anything like our sense of the importance of the work you have undertaken.'" "ay, there's something in that," said martha, who, like all sceptics, was slow to admit truth. we say not this to the discredit of sceptics. on the contrary, we think that people who swallow what is called "truth" too easily, are apt to imbibe a deal of error along with it. doubtless it was for the benefit of such that the word was given--"prove all things. hold fast that which is good." fred then went to show the immense blessing that mission ships had already been to the north sea fishermen--alike to their souls and bodies; but we may not follow him further, for bob lumsden and pat stiver claim individual attention just now. when these enterprising heroes observed that the shades of evening were beginning to fall, they rose to take their leave. "why so soon away, lads?" asked fred. "we're goin' to see eve mooney," answered bob. "whatever are the boys goin' to do wi' them thick sticks?" exclaimed martha lockley. "fit main an fore masts into a man-o'-war, i suppose," suggested her husband. the boys did not explain, but went off laughing, and lockley called after them-"tell eve i've got a rare lot o' queer things for her this trip." "and give her my dear love," cried mrs fred martin. "ay, ay," replied the boys as they hurried away on their self-imposed mission. chapter twelve. the enterprise fails--remarkably. the lads had to pass the "blue boar" on their way to widow mooney's hut, and they went in just to see, as bob said, how the land lay, and whether there was a prospect of help in that quarter if they should require it. besides a number of strangers, they found in that den of iniquity joe stubley, ned bryce, and groggy fox--which last had, alas! forgotten his late determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore." he and his comrades were still out among the breakers, clinging fondly to the old wreck. the boys saw at a glance that no assistance was to be expected from these men. stubley was violently argumentative, fox was maudlinly sentimental, and bryce was in an exalted state of heroic resolve. each sought to gain the attention and sympathy of the other, and all completely failed, but they succeeded in making a tremendous noise, which seemed partially to satisfy them as they drank deeper. "come, nothin' to be got here," whispered bob lumsden, in a tone of disgust, as he caught hold of his friend's arm. "we'll trust to ourselves--" "an' the thumpin' sticks," whispered pat, as they reached the end of the road. alas for the success of their enterprise if it had depended on those formidable weapons of war! when the hut was reached the night had become so nearly dark that they ventured to approach it with the intention of peeping in at the front window, but their steps were suddenly arrested by the sight of a man's figure approaching from the opposite direction. they drew back, and, being in the shadow of a wall, escaped observation. the man advanced noiselessly, and with evident caution, until he reached the window, and peeped in. "it's dick," whispered bob. "can't see his figure-head, but i know the cut of his jib, even in the dark." "let's go at 'im, slick!" whispered pat, grasping his cudgel and looking fierce. "not yet. we must make quite sure, an' nab him in the very act." as he spoke the man went with stealthy tread to the door of the hut, which the drunken owner had left on the latch. opening it softly, he went in, shut it after him, and, to the dismay of the boys, locked it on the inside. "now, pat," said bob, somewhat bitterly, "there's nothin' for it but the police." pat expressed strong dissent. "the p'leece," he said, "was useless for real work; they was on'y fit to badger boys an' old women." "but what can we do?" demanded bob anxiously, for he felt that time was precious. "you an' i ain't fit to bu'st in the door; an' if we was, dick would be ready for us. if we're to floor him he must be took by surprise." "let's go an' peep," suggested the smaller warrior. "come on, then," growled the big one. the sight that met their eyes when they peeped was indeed one fitted to expand these orbs of vision to the uttermost, for they beheld the thief on his knees beside the invalid's bed, holding her thin hand in his, while his head was bowed upon the ragged counterpane. bob lumsden was speechless. "hold me; i'm a-goin' to bu'st," whispered pat, by way of expressing the depth of his astonishment. presently eve spoke. they could hear her faintly, yet distinctly, through the cracked and patched windows, and listened with all their ears. "don't take on so, poor man," she said in her soft loving tones. "oh, i am _so_ glad to hear what you say!" dick martin looked up quickly. "what!" he exclaimed, "glad to hear me say that i am the thief as stole your mother's money! that i'm a low, vile, selfish blackguard who deserves to be kicked out o' the north sea fleet--off the face o' the 'arth altogether?" "yes," returned eve, smiling through her tears--for she had been crying--"glad to hear you say all that, because jesus came to save people like you; but he does not call them such bad names. he only calls them the `lost.'" "well, i suppose you're right, dear child," said the man, after a pause; "an' i do think the blessed lord has saved me, for i never before felt as i do now--hatred of my old bad ways, and an _awful_ desire to do right for his sake. if any o' my mates had told me i'd feel an' act like this a week ago, i'd have called him a fool. i can't understand it. i suppose that god must have changed me altogether. my only fear is that i'll fall back again into the old bad ways--i'm so helpless for anything good, d'ee see." "you forget," returned eve, with another of her tearful smiles; "he says, `i will never leave thee nor forsake thee'--" "no, i don't forget that," interrupted dick quickly; "that is what the young preacher in the mission smack said, an' it has stuck to me. it's that as keeps me up. but i didn't come here to speak about my thoughts an' feelin's," he continued, rising and taking a chair close to the bed, on which he placed a heavy bag. "i come here, eve, to make restitootion. there's every farthin' i stole from your poor mother. i kep' it intendin' to go to lun'on, and have a good long spree--so it's all there. you'll give it to her, but don't tell her who stole it. that's a matter 'tween you an' me an' the almighty. just you say that the miserable sinner who took it has bin saved by jesus christ, an' now returns it and axes her pardon." eve gladly promised, but while she was yet speaking, heavy footsteps were heard approaching the hut. the man started up as if to leave, and the two boys, suddenly awakening to the fact that they were eavesdropping, fled silently round the corner of the hut and hid themselves. the passer-by, whoever he was, seemed to change his mind, for the steps ceased to sound for a few moments, then they were heard again, with diminishing force, until they finally died away. a moment later, and the key was heard to turn, and the door of the hut to open and close, after which the heavy tread of the repentant fisherman was heard as he walked quickly away. the boys listened in silence till all was perfectly still. "well, now," said bob, drawing a long breath, "who'd have thought that things would have turned out like this?" "never heard of sich a case in _my_ life before," responded pat stiver with emphasis, as if he were a venerable magistrate who had been trying "cases" for the greater part of a long life. "why, it leaves us nothin' wotiver to do! even a p'leeceman might manage it! the thief has gone an' took up hisself, tried an' condemned hisself without a jury, pronounced sentance on hisself without a judge, an' all but hanged hisself without jack ketch, so there's nothin' for you an' me to do but go an' bury our thumpin' sticks, as red injins bury the war-hatchet, retire to our wigwams, an' smoke the pipe of peace." "wery good; let's go an' do it, then," returned bob, curtly. as it is not a matter of particular interest how the boys reduced this figurative intention to practice, we will leave them, and follow dick martin for a few minutes. his way led him past the "blue boar," which at that moment, however, proved to be no temptation to him. he paused to listen. sounds of revelry issued from its door, and the voice of joe stubley was heard singing with tremendous energy--"britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves," although he and all his companions were at that very moment thoroughly--in one or two cases almost hopelessly--enslaved to the most terrible tyrant that has ever crushed the human race! dick went on, and did not pause till he reached his sister's house. by that time the family party had broken up, but a solitary candle in the attic window showed that old granny martin was still on her watch-tower. "is that you, dick?" said his sister, opening to his tap, and letting him in; but there was nothing of welcome or pleasure in the widow's tone. the fisherman did not expect a warm welcome. he knew that he did not deserve it, but he cared not, for the visit was to his mother. gliding to her side, he went down on his knees, and laid his rugged head on her lap. granny did not seem taken by surprise. she laid her withered hand on the head, and said: "bless you, my boy! i knew you would come, sooner or later; praise be to his blessed name." we will not detail what passed between the mother and son on that occasion, but the concluding sentence of the old woman was significant: "he can't be long of coming _now_, dick, for the promises are all fulfilled at last, and i'm ready." she turned her head slowly again in the old direction, where, across the river and the sands, she could watch the moonbeams glittering on the solemn sea. three days later, and the skipper of the _sunbeam_ received a telegram telling him to prepare for guests, two of whom were to accompany him on his trip to the fleet. it was a bright, warm day when the guests arrived--a dozen or more ladies and gentlemen who sympathised with the mission, accompanied by the director. "all ready for sea, martin, i suppose?" said the latter, as the party stepped on board from the wharf, alongside of which the vessel lay. "all ready, sir," responded fred. "if the wind holds we may be with the fleet, god willing, some time to-morrow night." the _sunbeam_ was indeed all ready, for the duties on board of her had been performed by those who did their work "as to the lord, and not to men." every rope was in its place and properly coiled away, every piece of brass-work about the vessel shone like burnished gold. the deck had been scrubbed to a state of perfect cleanliness, so that, as jim freeman said, "you might eat your victuals off it." in short, everything was trim and taut, and the great blue mdsf flag floated from the masthead, intimating that the gospel ship was about to set forth on her mission of mercy, to fish for men. among the party who were conducted by fred and the director over the vessel were two clergymen, men of middle age, who had been labouring among all classes on the land: sympathising with the sad, rejoicing with the glad, praying, working, and energising for rich and poor, until health had begun to give way, and change of air and scene had become absolutely necessary. a week or so at the sea, it was thought, would revive them. and what change of air could be more thorough than that from the smoke of the city to the billows of the north sea? the director had suggested the change. men of god were sorely wanted out there, he said, and, while they renewed their health among the fresh breezes of ocean, they might do grand service for the master among the long-neglected fishermen. the reasoning seemed just. the offer was kind. the opportunity was good, as well as unique and interesting. the land-worn clergymen accepted the invitation, and were now on their way to the scene of their health-giving work, armed with waterproofs, sou'westers, and sea-boots. "it will do you good, sir, both body and soul," said skipper martin to the elder of the two, when presented to him. "you'll find us a strange lot, sir, out there, but glad to see you, and game to listen to what you've got to say as long as ever you please." when the visitors had seen all that was to be seen, enjoyed a cup of coffee, prayed and sung with the crew, and wished them god-speed, they went on shore, and the _sunbeam_, hoisting her sails and shaking out the blue flag, dropped quietly down the river. other smacks there were, very much like herself, coming and going, or moored to the wharves, but as the visitors stood on the river bank and waved their adieux, the thought was forced upon them how inconceivably vast was the difference between those vessels which laboured for time and this one which toiled for eternity. soon the _sunbeam_ swept out upon the sea, bent over to the freshening breeze, and steered on her beneficent course towards her double fishing-ground. chapter thirteen. the tide begins to turn, and death steps in. let us now, good reader, outstrip the _sunbeam_, and, proceeding to the fleet in advance of her, pay a night visit to one or two of the smacks. we are imaginative creatures, you see, and the powers of imagination are, as you know, almost illimitable. even now, in fact, we have you hovering over the dark sea, which, however, like the air above it, is absolutely calm, so that the numerous lanterns of the fishing-vessels around are flickering far down into the deep, like gleams of perpendicular lightning. it is saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is the _lively poll_. let us descend into her cabin. a wonderful change has come over the vessel's crew since the advent of the mission smack. before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling, diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane. on the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet. they could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. but it was evident that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around them. like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary. david duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of dickens, was growing purple in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. stephen lockley, who had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his elbows resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown on his face. hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering deep into his awakening soul. bob lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the binnacle light on deck, had secured an american magazine, the humorous style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into hearty ripples of laughter. but they were not equally persevering, for joe stubley, to whom reading was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his favourite game of "checkers." the mate, peter jay, was slowly pacing the deck in profound meditation. his soul had been deeply stirred by some of the words which had fallen from the lips of john binning, and perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely in his mind. "well done, little marchioness!" exclaimed david duffy, with eyes riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, "you're a trump!" "shush!" exclaimed lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up his hand as if to check interruption. "there's somethin' in this, although i can't quite see it yet." a roar of laughter on deck announced that bob lumsden had found something quite to his taste. "first-rate--ha! ha! i wonder if it's all true." "hold your noise there," cried hawkson; "who d'ee think can learn off a hymn wi' you shoutin' like a bo'sun's mate an' duffy snortin' like a grampus?" "ah, just so," chimed in stubley, looking up from his board. "why don't you let it out, david? you'll bu'st the b'iler if you don't open a bigger safety-valve than your nose." "smack on the weather beam, that looks like the gospel ship, sir," said the mate, looking down the hatchway. the skipper closed his book at once and went on deck, but the night was so dark, and the smack in question so far off, that they were unable to make her out among the numerous lights of the fleet. in another part of that fleet, not far distant, floated the _cormorant_. here too, as in many other smacks, the effects of the _sunbeam's_ beneficent influence had begun to tell. groggy fox's crew was noted as one of the most quarrelsome and dissipated in the fleet. on this particular saturday night, however, all was quiet, for most of the men were busy with books, pamphlets, and tracts. one who had, as his mate said, come by a broken head, was slumbering in his berth, scientifically bandaged and convalescent, and groggy himself, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, was deep in a book which he pronounced to be "one o' the wery best wollums he had ever come across in the whole course of his life," leaving it to be inferred, perhaps, that he had come across a very large number of volumes in his day. while he was thus engaged one of the men whispered in his ear, "a _coper_ alongside, sir." the skipper shut the "wery best wollum" at once, and ordered out the boat. "put a cask o' oysters in her," he said. usually his men were eager to go with their skipper, but on this night some of them were so interested in the books they were reading that they preferred to remain on board. others went, and, with their skipper, got themselves "fuddled" on the proceeds of the owner's oysters. if oysters had not been handy, fish or something else would have been used instead, for skipper fox was not particular--he was still clinging to "the poor old stranded wreck." it was dawn when, according to their appropriate phrase, they "tumbled" over the side of the _coper_ into their boat. as they bade the dutchman good night they observed that he was looking "black as thunder" at the horizon. "w-wat's wrong, ol' b-boy?" asked groggy. the dutchman pointed to the horizon. "no use for me to shtop here, mit _dat_ alongside!" he replied. the fishermen turned their drunken eyes in the direction indicated, and, after blinking a few seconds, clearly made out the large blue flag, with its letters mdsf, fluttering in the light breeze that had risen with the sun. with curses both loud and deep the dutchman trimmed his sails, and slowly but decidedly vanished from the scene. thus the tide began to turn on the north sea! the light breeze went down as the day advanced, and soon the mission vessel found herself surrounded by smacks, with an ever-increasing tail of boats at her stern, and an ever-multiplying congregation on her deck. it was a busy and a lively scene, for while they were assembling, fred martin took advantage of the opportunity to distribute books and medicines, and to bind up wounds, etcetera. at the same time the pleasant meeting of friends, who never met in such numbers anywhere else--not even in the _copers_--and the hearty good wishes and shaking of hands, with now and then expressions of thankfulness from believers-all tended to increase the bustle and excitement, so that the two invalid clergymen began at once to experience the recuperative influence of glad enthusiasm. "there is plenty to do here, both for body and soul," remarked one of these to fred during a moment of relaxation. "yes, sir, thank god. we come out here to work, and we find the work cut out for us. a good many surgical cases, too, you observe. but we expect that. in five of the fleets there were more than two thousand cases treated last year aboard of the mission smacks, so we look for our share. in fact, during our first eight weeks with this fleet we have already had two hundred men applying for medicine or dressing of wounds." "quite an extensive practice, dr martin," said the clergyman, with a laugh. "ay, sir; but ours is the medical-missionary line. the body may be first in time, but the soul is first in importance with us." in proof of this, as it were, the skipper now stopped all that had been going on, and announced that the _real_ work of the day was going to begin; whereupon the congregation crowded into the hold until it was full. those who could not find room clustered on deck round the open hatch and listened--sometimes craned their necks over and gazed. it was a new experience for the invalid clergymen, who received another bath of recuperative influence. fervour, interest, intelligence seemed to gleam in the steady eyes of the men while they listened, and thrilled in their resonant voices when they sang. one of the clergymen preached as he had seldom preached before, and then prayed, after which they all sang; but the congregation did not move to go away. the brother clergyman therefore preached, and, modestly fearing that he was keeping them too long, hinted as much. "go on, sir," said the admiral, who was there; "it ain't every day we gets a chance like this." a murmur of assent followed, and the preacher went on; but we will not follow him. after closing with the hymn, "how sweet the name of jesus sounds in a believer's ear," they all went on deck, where they found a glory of sunshine flooding the _sunbeam_, and glittering on the still tranquil sea. the meeting now resolved itself into a number of groups, among whom the peculiar work of the day was continued directly or indirectly. it was indeed a wonderful condition of things on board of the gospel ship that sunday--wheels within wheels, spiritual machinery at work from stem to stern. a few, whose hearts had been lifted up, got out an accordion and their books, and "went in for" hymns. among these bob lumsden and his friend pat stiver took an active part. here and there couples of men leaned over the side and talked to each other in undertones of their saviour and the life to come. in the bow manx bradley got hold of joe stubley and pleaded hard with him to come to jesus, and receive power from the holy spirit to enable him to give up all his evil ways. in the stern fred martin sought to clear away the doubts and difficulties of ned bryce. elsewhere the two clergymen were answering questions, and guiding several earnest souls to a knowledge of the truth, while down in the cabin jim freeman prevailed on several men and boys to sign the temperance pledge. among these last was groggy fox, who, irresolute of purpose, was still holding back. "'cause why," said he; "i'll be sure to break it again. i can't keep it." "i know that, skipper," said fred, coming down at the moment. "in your own strength you'll _never_ keep it, but in god's strength you shall conquer _all_ your enemies. let's pray, lads, that we may all be enabled to keep to our good resolutions." then and there they all knelt down, and skipper fox arose with the determination once again to "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore." but that was a memorable sunday in other respects, for towards the afternoon a stiff breeze sprang up, and an unusually low fall in the barometer turned the fishermen's thoughts back again to wordly cares. the various boats left the _sunbeam_ hurriedly. as the _lively poll_ had kept close alongside all the time, stephen lockley was last to think of leaving. he had been engaged in a deeply interesting conversation with one of the clergymen about his soul, but at last ordered his boat to be hauled alongside. while this was being done, he observed that another smack--one of the so-called "ironclads"--was sailing so as to cross the bows of his vessel. the breeze had by that time increased considerably, and both smacks, lying well over, were rushing swiftly through the water. suddenly some part of the ironclad's tackling about the mainsail gave way, the head of the vessel fell to leeward; next moment she went crashing into the _lively poll_, and cut her down to the water's edge. the ironclad seemed to rebound and tremble for a moment, and then passed on. the steersman at once threw her up into the wind with the intention of rendering assistance, but in another minute the _lively poll_ had sunk and disappeared for ever, carrying peter jay and hawkson along with her. of course several boats pushed off at once to the rescue, and hovered about the spot for some time, but neither the men nor the vessel were ever seen again. there was a smack at some distance, which was about to quit the fleet next morning and return to port. the skipper of it knew well which vessel had been run down, but, not being near enough to see all that passed, imagined that the whole crew had perished along with her. during the night the breeze freshened to a gale, which rendered fishing impossible. this vessel therefore left the fleet before dawn, and carried the news to gorleston that the _lively poll_ had been run down and sunk with all her crew. it was fred martin's wife who undertook to break this dreadful news to poor mrs lockley. only those who have had such duty to perform can understand the struggle it cost the gentle-spirited isa. the first sight of her friend's face suggested to mrs lockley the truth, and when words confirmed it she stood for a moment with a countenance pale as death. then, clasping her hands tightly together, the poor woman, with a cry of despair, sank insensible upon the floor. chapter fourteen. the last. but the supposed death of stephen lockley did not soften the heart of his wife. it only opened her eyes a little. after the first stunning effect had passed, a hard, rebellious state of mind set in, which induced her to dry her tears, and with stern countenance reject the consolation of sympathisers. the poor woman's heart was breaking, and she refused to be comforted. it was while she was in this condition that mrs mooney, of all people, took it into her head to visit and condole with her neighbour. that poor woman, although a sot, was warm-hearted, and the memory of what she had suffered when her own husband perished seemed to arouse her sympathies in an unusual degree. she was, as her male friends would have said, "screwed" when she knocked at mrs lockley's door. the poor creature was recovering from a burst of passionate grief, and turned her large dark eyes fiercely on the would-be comforter as she entered. "my dear mrs lockley," began mrs mooney, with sympathy beaming on her red countenance, "it do grieve me to see you like this--a'most as much as wen my--" "you're drunk!" interrupted mrs lockley, with a look of mingled sternness and indignation. "well, my dear," replied mrs mooney, with a deprecatory smile, "that ain't an uncommon state o' things, an' you've no call to be 'ard on a poor widdy like yourself takin' a little consolation now an' then when she can get it. i just thought i'd like to comfort--" "i don't want no comfort," cried mrs lockley in a sharp tone. "leave me. go away!" there was something so terrible in the mingled look of grief and anger which disturbed the handsome features of the young wife, that mrs mooney, partly awed and partly alarmed, turned at once and left the house. she did not feel aggrieved, only astonished and somewhat dismayed. after a few moments of meditation she set off, intending to relieve her feelings in the "blue boar." on her way she chanced to meet no less a personage than pat stiver, who, with his hands in his pockets and his big boots clattering over the stones, was rolling along in the opposite direction. "pat, my boy!" exclaimed the woman in surprise, "wherever did you come from?" "from the north sea," said pat, looking up at his questioner with an inquiring expression. "i say, old woman, drunk again?" "well, boy, who denyses of it?" "ain't you ashamed of yourself?" "no, i ain't. why should i? who cares whether i'm drunk or sober?" "who cares, you unnat'ral old bundle o' dirty clo'es? don't eve care? an' don't fred martin an' bob lumpy care? an' don't _i_ care, worse than all of 'em put together, except eve?" "you, boy?" exclaimed the woman. "yes, me. but look here, old gal; where are you goin'? to have a drink, i suppose?" "jus' so. that's 'xactly where i'm a-steerin' to." "well, now," cried pat, seizing the woman's hand, "come along, an' i'll give you somethin' to drink. moreover, i'll treat you to some noos as'll cause your blood to curdle, an' your flesh to creep, an' your eyes to glare, an your hair to stand on end!" thus adjured, and with curiosity somewhat excited, mrs mooney suffered herself to be led to that temperance coffee-tavern in gorleston to which we have already referred. "ain't it comf'r'able?" asked the boy, as his companion gazed around her. "now then, missis," he said to the attendant, with the air of an old frequenter of the place, "coffee and wittles for two--hot. here, sit down in this corner, old lady, where you can take in the beauties o' the place all at one squint." almost before he had done speaking two large cups of hot coffee and two thick slices of buttered bread lay before them. "there you are--all ship-shape. now drink, an' no heel-taps." mrs mooney drank in dumb surprise, partly at the energy and cool impudence of the boy, and partly at the discovery that there was more comfort in hot coffee than she had expected. "you've heard, in course, that the _lively poll_ is at the bottom of the north sea?" said pat. mrs mooney set down her cup with a sigh and a sudden expression of woe mingled with reproof, while she remarked that there was no occasion to be lighthearted on such a subject. "that's all _you_ know," retorted pat. "of course we was told the moment we came alongside the wharf this mornin', that somebody had bin blowin' half a gale o' lies about it, but stephen lockley ain't drownded, not he, an' don't mean to be for some time. he was aboard of the _sunbeam_ at the time his wessel went down an' all the rest of 'em, except poor jay an' hawkson, an' we've brought 'em all ashore. you see we got so damaged in a gale that came on to blow the wery next day that we've bin forced to run here for repairs. skipper lockley's away up at this here minit to see his wife--leastwise, he's waitin' outside till one o' the parsons goes and breaks the noos to her. the skipper didn't see no occasion for that, an' said he could break the noos to her hisself, but the parson said he didn't know what the consikences might be, so stephen he gave in, an'--. now, old girl, if you keep openin' of your mouth an' eyes at that rate you'll git lockjaw, an' never be able to go to sleep no more." there was, indeed, some ground for the boy's remark, for his "noos" had evidently overwhelmed mrs mooney--chiefly with joy, on account of her friend mrs lockley, to whom, even when "in liquor", she was tenderly attached. she continued to gaze speechless at pat, who took advantage of the opportunity to do a little private business on his own account. taking a little bit of blue ribbon with a pin attached to it from his pocket, he coolly fixed it on mrs mooney's breast. "there," said he gravely, "i promised bob that i'd make as many conwerts as i could, so i've conwerted _you_!" utterly regardless of her conversion, mrs mooney suddenly sprang from her seat and made for the door. "hallo, old gal! where away now!" cried the boy, seizing her skirt and following her out, being unable to stop her. "i'm a-goin' to tell eve, an' _won't_ she be glad, for she was awful fond o' lockley!" "all right, i'm with 'ee. cut along." "mother!" exclaimed eve, when the poor woman stood before her with eager excitement flushing her face to a ruddy purple. "have you _really_ put on the blue ribbon?" the poor child's thin pretty little race flushed with hope for a moment. "oh, it ain't that, dear," said mrs mooney, "but lockley ain't drownded arter all! he's--he's--" here pat stiver broke in, and began to explain to the bewildered girl. he was yet in the midst of his "noos," when the door was flung open, and mrs lockley hurried in. "forgive me, mrs mooney," she cried, grasping her friend's hand, "i shouldn't have spoke to you as i did, but my heart was very sore. oh, it is breakin'!" she sat down, covered her face with both hands, and sobbed violently. her friends stood speechless and helpless. it was obvious that she must have left her house to make this apology before the clergyman who was to break the news had reached it. before any one could summon courage to speak, a quick step was heard outside, and lockley himself entered. he had been waiting near at hand for the clergyman to summon him, when he caught sight of his wife entering the hut. mrs lockley sprang up--one glance, a wild shriek, but not of despair-and she would have fallen to the ground had not her husband's strong arms been around her. it is believed that joy seldom or never kills. at all events it did not kill on this occasion, for mrs lockley and her husband were seen that same evening enjoying the hospitality of mrs martin, while their little one was being fondled on the knees of the old granny, who pointed through the attic window, and tried to arouse the child's interest in the great sea. when mrs mooney succeeded in turning her attention to the blue ribbon on her breast, she laughed heartily at the idea of such a decoration-much to the sorrow of eve, who had prayed for many a day, not that her mother might put on that honourable badge, but that she might be brought to the saviour, in whom are included all things good and true and strong. nevertheless, it is to be noted that mrs mooney did not put the blue ribbon off. she went next day to have a laugh over it with mrs lockley. but the fisherman's wife would not laugh. she had found that while sorrow and suffering may drive one to despair in regard to god and self and all terrestrial things, joy frequently softens. surely it is the "goodness of god that leadeth to repentance." this life, as it were, from the dead proved to be life from death to herself, and she talked and prayed with her drunken friend until that friend gave her soul to jesus, and received the spirit of power by which she was enabled to "hold the fort,"--to adopt and keep the pledge of which her ribbon was but the emblem. although we have now described the end of the _lively poll_, it must not be supposed that the crew of that ill-fated smack was dispersed and swallowed up among the fishing fleets of the north sea. on the contrary, though separated for the time, they came together again,--ay, and held together for many a long day thereafter. and this is how it came about. one morning, a considerable time after the events we have just narrated, stephen lockley invited his old comrades to meet him in the gorleston coffee-tavern, and, over a rousing cup of "hot, with," delivered to them the following oration: "friends and former messmates. i ain't much of a speaker, so you'll excuse my goin' to the pint direct. a noble lady with lots o' tin an' a warm heart has presented a smack all complete to our deep-sea fishermen institootion. it cost, i'm told, about 2000 pounds, and will be ready to start as a gospel ship next week. for no reason that i knows on, 'xcept that it's the lord's will, they've appointed me skipper, with directions to choose my own crew. so, lads, i've got you here to ask if you're willin' to ship with me." "_i'm_ willin', of _course_," cried pat stiver eagerly, "an so's bob lumpy. i'll answer for him!" there was a general laugh at this, but bob lumsden, who was present, chose to answer for himself, and said he was heartily willing. so said david duffy, and so also said joe stubley. "i on'y wish," added the latter, "that jim freeman was free to j'ine, but fred martin's not likely to let _him_ go, for he's uncommon fond of him." "he's doin' good work for the master where he is," returned lockley, "and we'll manage to catch as true and able a man among the north sea fleets afore long. there's as good fish in the sea, you know, as ever came out of it. our mission smack is to be called the _welcome_." "at this rate," observed dick martin, who was one of the party, "we'll soon have a mission ship to every fleet in the north sea; that'll please our director, won't it?" "ay, it will," said lockley. "all the same, i heard the director say only the other day, he wished people would remember that the mission needed funds to keep the smacks a-goin' as well as to build an' launch 'em. howsever, we've no need to fear, for when the master sends the men and the work, he's sure to find the means." two weeks after the date on which this harmonious meeting was held, a new vessel, laden with spiritual treasure, unfurled her sails, shook out her mdsf ensign, and, amid the good wishes, silent prayers, and ringing cheers of sympathetic friends on shore, went forth as a beacon of love and light and hope to irradiate the toilers on the dark north sea. among those cheering and praying ones were mrs mooney--a brand plucked from the burning--and fragile eve, with her weak, thin, helpless body and her robust heart, chosen to do herculean and gladiator service of sympathy and rescue in the master's cause. and you may be sure that blooming isa martin was there, and her friend martha lockley; manx bradley, the admiral, who, with other fishermen, chanced to be having their spell on shore at that time, was also there. even old granny martin was there, in a sense, for she could see from her attic the great blue flag as it fluttered in the breeze, and she called her unfailing-and no longer ailing daughter to come to the window and look at it and wish it god-speed; after which she turned her old eyes again to their wonted resting-place, where the great sea rolled its crested breakers beyond the sands. it remains but to add that the _welcome_ was received by the fleet to which she was sent with an enthusiasm which fully justified her name, and that her crew found her thenceforth, both as to her sea-going qualities and the nature of her blessed work, a marvellous improvement on their former home, the _lively poll_. -----------------------------------------------------------------------note. the office of the mission to deep-sea fishermen is 181 queen victoria street, london, ec, at the date of publication of this book. the end. distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net _the spell of the white sturgeon_ jim kjelgaard dodd, mead & company new york 1953 copyright, 1953 by jim kjelgaard all rights reserved no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher _library of congress catalog card number: 53-6314_ printed in the united states of america by vail-ballou press, inc., binghamton, n. y. to david leclair and richard smith _contents_ _chapter one_ storm 1 _two_ wreck 16 _three_ on the beach 34 _four_ trouble for the _spray_ 54 _five_ rescue 73 _six_ new venture 89 _seven_ partners 109 _eight_ action 125 _nine_ pirates 144 _ten_ the great fish 160 _eleven_ fisherman's luck 171 _twelve_ the pond 184 the characters and situations in this book are wholly fictional and imaginative: they do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons or parties. _the spell of the white sturgeon_ chapter one _storm_ ramsay cartou leaned on the rail of the ponderous side-wheeler, the _h. h. holter_, and watched without interest while a horse-drawn truck brought another load of cattle hides on board. the sweating stevedores who were loading the _holter_ and the belaboring mate who supervised them began stowing the hides into the hold. the _holter's_ winch, either ruined by an inexpert operator or about to fall apart anyhow, was broken. all the work had to be done by hand. ramsay turned to breathe the clean air that swept in from lake michigan. it was impossible, anywhere on the _holter_, to get away from the smell of the hides, but at least he did not have to look at them. not since he had left the brawling young city of chicago two days before, to make his way north to the equally lusty young city of milwaukee, had the sun shone. in those two days, while he waited for repairs to the engine hauling the train in which he was riding, he had seen nothing of the lake. now, from the mouth of the river where the _holter_ was anchored, he had a clear view, and it was exciting. the grays of the sky and the grays of the lake were indefinable, with no clear separation. ramsay shivered slightly. the lake was a cat, he thought, a great sinewy cat, and the whitecaps rolling into the harbor were its sheathed and unsheathed claws. it was an awesome thing, but at the same time a wonderful one. a trembling excitement rose within him. the lake was at once a challenge and a promise--a threat and a mighty lure. he stared, fascinated, and tried to trace the rolling course of the waves as they surged toward the bank. it was impossible to follow just one for, as soon as it swelled, it retreated, to lose itself in the immense lake and renew itself in endless forward surges. like recklessly charging soldiers, the waves cast themselves up on the bank and, exhausted, fell back. so absorbed was he in the spectacle and so fascinated by the lake, that for a moment he was unaware of the man beside him or of the words he spoke. then a rough hand grasped his shoulder and, reacting instantly, ramsay whirled around. "why ain't you at work with the rest, boy?" "take your hand off me!" the man who stood beside him was oddly like a rock, a great granite boulder. two inches taller than ramsay's six feet, he had a barrel chest and long, powerful arms. a leather jacket, with the sleeves cut off, hung loosely on his upper body, and beneath it he wore a homespun shirt. his black trousers had been fashioned by an exacting tailor but sadly misused. they were torn and patched with anything that might have been at hand. black hair straggled from beneath his crushed black hat and the hair needed cutting. his eyes, colorless, were oddly inanimate, like two glass balls with no special warmth or feeling. a black beard sprouted from his cheeks and half-hid his face, but the beard did not hide thick, coarse lips. he repeated, "them hides got to be loaded! get to work!" "load them yourself!" "i'll give you a lesson you won't forget, boy!" "do that!" ramsay tensed, awaiting the anticipated attack of the bigger, heavier man. he felt almost a grim pleasure. he had learned his fighting the hard way, as anybody brought up on the new york water-front, and with an irresponsible father had to learn it. the man who faced him was heavier by a good sixty pounds, but he was a bull of a man and, probably, he would fight like a bull. would he know about matadors? the man's eyes were narrowed to pinpoints, and they seemed to spark. sheer rage made his face livid, while his lips were distorted in a snarl. he drew back, readying himself for the spring that would overwhelm this brash youth who had dared dispute him. ramsay poised on lithe feet, prepared to side-step. then fat, fussy little captain schultz, skipper of the _holter_, stepped between them. he wheezed like an over-fat lap-dog, "vot you doin'?" "i want them hides loaded and the ship under way!" the man who faced ramsay snarled. "ach! dis man payin' passenger!" a deck hand, his eyes downcast, hurried past. the man who had ordered ramsay to get to work stood still for a moment, glaring. then, furiously, soundlessly, he turned on his heel and strode up the gangplank to the pier. ramsay watched him go, and he knew that, even if there had not been unpleasantness between them, he could never like this man. no matter where they met, or how, they would never get along together. captain schultz also turned to watch the man depart. then he gave his attention to ramsay. "ach! you should be careful 'pout startin' fights, poy." "so should other people!" ramsay said, still smarting. "you should, too. yaah!" and, as though he had settled that once and for all, captain schultz waddled away to speak to the mate who was supervising the stevedores. a little uncertainty arose in ramsay. this--this half-wilderness, half-civilization in which he found himself was a land of strong contradictions. lake michigan, with all its fear and all its terror, and all its inspiration, lapped the wisconsin shores. yet some man could be so little impressed by the vast lake that he could name a boat for himself. possibly a man capable of building or owning a ship like the _holter_ had a right to think of himself. ramsay turned again to look at the lake, and his mind projected him far away from the worn, slippery decks of the _holter_. almost he was unaware of the two silver dollars in his pocket, all the money he had left in the world, and of the uncertain future. at the same time, while his inmost being feasted on the lake, a part of his mind reviewed the events that had brought him here. he had an abrupt, uncomfortable revival of a new york memory. there was a lion, a great, black-maned lion, in the new york zoo. it was well fed and well cared for, its every need attended. but most times the lion had still seemed restless and unhappy, and sometimes it had been a tired thing. then it was hardly a lion at all but just a weary, living thing. ramsay had wondered often how that lion felt. he had never decided exactly how it did feel; within himself there were a dozen conflicting opinions. the lion paced its cage, and coming to the end of the very narrow limits granted to it, it turned and went back the other way. coming to the end of the cage, it turned again. but all it ever found was the place it had already left. once in a great while the lion had been very alert and very attentive. it was as though, now and again, the great animal could scent a wind of which nothing else was aware. that wind brought him memories of freedom, and happiness and the unhampered jungle life that had been. ramsay had gone often to see the lion, and though he never understood why, he always felt as though he had something in common with it, and he understood it partially. new york offered an abundance of opportunities, but they were well bound and well defined. there had always been a wild longing, a reckless yearning, within him, and often he thought that the newspapers which carried stories of the undeveloped midwest were to him what the faint jungle scents had been to the lion. he had devoured every story eagerly. the midwest was new, the papers had said. good farm land, if one wanted to be a farmer, could be had for as little as four dollars an acre. it was the land of the future. again ramsay jingled the two dollars in his pocket. he had answered the call of the midwest because he could not help answering it. he had to try and to go and see for himself, but at the same time a caution, inborn in his scotch mother and transplanted to him, could not be ignored. before he burned his bridges behind him he had wanted to make sure that there were some ahead, and correspondence with the manager of the three points tannery had led to the offer of a job when he came. a dollar and twenty-five cents a day the tannery was offering able-bodied men, and there were too few men. ramsay looked out upon the lake, and a little thrill of excitement swept through him. sometimes he had felt doubts about the wisdom of having left new york for the midwest. he had been sure of a place to sleep and enough to eat as long as he stayed in new york, and again he felt the two dollars in his pocket. troubled, he looked out on the surging lake, and knew an instant peace. it was worth seeing. it was something few new yorkers ever saw. the ocean was at their doorstep, and few of them even bothered looking at that; but the ocean was not like this. lake michigan was fresh and clean, different, wild and, as the papers had promised, new. ramsay tasted the wet air, liking it as he did so. he turned at a sudden squealing and clatter on the pier, and saw four men trying to fight a little black horse onto the ship. the horse, not trusting this strange craft and certainly not liking it, lashed out with striking hooves. dodging, the men finally fought it into a sort of small cage they had prepared. the horse thrust its head over the side and bugled shrilly. ramsay watched interestedly, distracted for the few minutes the men needed to get the horse into its cage. it reared as though it would climb over the confining bars, then stood quietly. a sensible horse, ramsay decided, and a good one. only fools, whether they were animals or men, fought when there was no chance of winning or battered their brains out against a stone wall. good animals and good men never considered anything hopeless, but they tried to fight with intelligence as well as brawn. ramsay glanced again at the horse. it was standing quietly but not resignedly. its head was up. its ears were alert and its eyes bright. it still did not like the ship, but it had not just given in. rather, it was waiting a good chance to get away. ramsay grinned. the next time, he decided, they would have a little more trouble getting that horse onto anything that floated. then he returned his attention to the loading of the _holter_. a continuous line of horse-drawn trucks loaded with hides was coming alongside the ship, and the stevedores were laboring mightily to stow the hides away. obviously whoever owned the _holter_ intended to load her with every last pound she would carry. he wanted a paying cargo that would pay off to the last cent. almost imperceptibly the ship settled into the water. the gangplank, that had been almost even with the deck, now tilted downward. once or twice ramsay saw the bearded, jacketed man with whom he had quarreled. but the man did not venture onto the _holter_ again. rather, he seemed more interested in getting the hides loaded. ramsay speculated on the scene he was witnessing, and then he found the whys and wherefores, the reasons behind it. this wisconsin country was still more than half a wilderness. it had its full share of wilderness men, but its fertile farm lands were attracting many dutch, swiss and german farmers. struggling with a half-tamed country, they did anything they could to earn a livelihood, and some of them raised beef cattle. the hides were a by-product and the world markets needed leather. but the leather could not be processed without necessary materials, and the hemlock trees which provided tan bark were being cut at three points. it was cheaper, and easier, to transport the hides to three points than it was to carry the cumbersome tan bark to milwaukee or chicago. from three points, harness leather, sole leather and almost every other kind, was shipped by boat to chicago and from there it was carried to the eastern markets by rail. * * * * * it was not until mid-afternoon that the last of the hides were loaded and the hatches battened down. the side wheel began to turn and the _holter_ moved cumbersomely down the river into lake michigan. standing in his enclosure, the little horse stamped restlessly and neighed again. he was nervous, but he was not afraid. ramsay approved. the little black horse didn't like his cage, but he would meet the situation as it existed rather than lose his head or become panic-stricken. ramsay walked over to the cage and the horse thrust his velvet muzzle against the bars. when the boy rubbed his nose, the horse twitched his ears and looked at him with friendly eyes. thick smoke belched from the _holter's_ stack and made a long plume over the lake, behind the plodding side-wheeler. a strong wind was screaming in from the north and lashing the water angrily into leaping waves. the ship nosed into the trough created by the waves and rose again on the opposite side. ramsay walked to the bow and leaned over the rail, and a mighty excitement rose anew within him. this, it seemed, was what he had wanted to find when he left new york to go roving. the lake, storm-lashed, was a wild and terrible thing. it was a beast, but something with a vast appeal lay behind its fury and its anger. lake michigan was the place for a man. it would never be free of challenge if there was anyone who dared to pick up the gauntlet it cast. there was motion beside ramsay, and the deck hand who had passed while he argued with the bearded man fell in beside him. he glanced at the man. the deck hand was about thirty-six, older than ramsay by eighteen years, and there was a seasoned, weather-beaten look about him. it was as though he had turned his face to many a raging storm and many a fierce wind. he grinned amiably. "hi!" "hi!" ramsay said. the deck hand chuckled. "boy, i thought you were in trouble sure when you were ruckusin' with old devil chad." "devil chad?" "yeah. the one who told you to help load hides. he'd of cleaned the deck with you." "maybe he would," ramsay said. "and then again, maybe he wouldn't." "he would," the deck hand asserted. "he can lick anybody or anything. owns half the country 'round here, he does, includin' most of the _holter_. what's more, he aims to keep it. one of the richest men in wisconsin." "quite a man," ramsay said drily. "yeah, an' quite a fighter. on'y reason he didn't clean your clock was on account captain schultz told him you was a payin' passenger. devil chad, he gets half the fare every passenger on the _holter_ pays, he does." ramsay knew a rising irritation. "what makes you so sure he can't be cut down to size?" "never has been, never will be," the deck hand asserted. he regarded the surging lake morosely, and then said, "one of these days this old tub is goin' to end up right at the bottom of michigan, it is. either that or on the beach. wish i was some'res else." "why don't you go somewhere else?" "one of these days i will," the deck hand threatened. "i'll just haul off an' go back to the ocean boats, i will. i was on 'em for fourteen years, an' quit to come here on account i got scar't of storms at sea. ha! worstest thing i ever see on the atlantic ain't nothin' to what this lake can throw at you." "is it really that bad?" ramsay asked eagerly. "bad?" the deck hand said. "boy, i've seen waves here taller'n a ship. in course nobody ever goes out when it's that bad on account, if they did, nobody'd ever get back." he scanned the horizon. "we're goin' to hit weather afore we ever gets to three points. goin' to hit it sure. wish this old tub wasn't loaded so heavy, an' with hides at that." a wave struck the bow, crested and broke in foaming spray that cast itself up and over the ship. ramsay felt it, cool on his face, and he licked eager lips. lake michigan was fresh water, not salt like the ocean, and it was as pure as an ice-cold artesian well. it was also, he thought, almost as cold. he looked into the clouded horizon, studying the storm that battered the _holter_. he smiled to himself. suddenly he became all eager interest, peering out into the driving waves and focusing his attention on one place. he thought he had seen something there, but because of the angry lake he could not be sure. it might have been just a drifting shadow, or just one more of the dark waves which seemed to fill the lake and to be of all shades. then, and plainly, he saw it again. it was a boat, a little boat no more than twenty-four feet from bowsprit to stern, and it was carrying almost a full load of sail as it tacked back and forth into the wind. ramsay had not seen the sails because, when he first spotted the boat, it had been heeled over so far that the sails did not show. now they were showing and full, and the little boat sailed like a proud swan with its wings spread. ramsay forgot the _holter_, the man beside him and everything else save the little boat. the _holter_ and nothing on it, with the possible exception of the little black horse, was even remotely interesting. but this was. ramsay breathed a sigh of relief. he should have known. he should have understood from the first that, when any water was as mighty and as exciting as lake michigan, there would be some to meet its challenge with daring, grace and spirit. the tiny craft was a mere cockleshell of a boat, a ridiculously small thing with which to venture upon such a water, but ramsay could not help feeling that it would be much better to sail on the little boat than on the _holter_. he kept fascinated eyes on it as it tacked back into the wind. again it heeled over, so far that it was almost hidden in the trough of a vast wave. saucily, jauntily it bobbed up again. the _holter_, that workhorse of the water, plodded stolidly on its appointed way. ramsay continued to watch the little boat, and now they were near enough so that he could see its crew of four. he gasped involuntarily. working into the wind, the little boat was coming back, and its course took it directly across the _holter's_ right of way. ramsay clenched his fingers and bit his lip fiercely. a collision seemed inevitable. wide-eyed, he watched the little boat. now he saw its name, not painted on with stencils but written in a fine, free-flowing script, _spray_, and the carved valkyrie maiden that was its figurehead. a big gull, obviously its tame one, sat on the very top of the mast and flapped its wings. the _spray_ had a crew of four, but ramsay concentrated on just one of them. he was huge, fully as tall as the black beard who had accosted ramsay and just as heavy, but he was a different kind of man. he balanced on his little boat's swaying deck with all the grace of a dancer, while he clung almost carelessly to a line that ran through a pulley. no inch of the man's shirt and trousers, which were all the clothing he wore, for he was bare-footed, remained dry, and the shaggy blond curls that carpeted his head were dripping. white teeth gleamed as he looked up at the _holter_ and laughed. ramsay leaned forward excitedly. he warmed to this man, even as he had been repelled by the black beard the deck hand called devil chad. the man on the boat was gay and spirited, and he seemed complete master of everything about him. the deck hand put cupped hands to his mouth and screamed, "sheer off! sheer off!" captain schultz's voice was heard. "_dumkopf!_ go 'way!" then, just as it seemed that collision could not be avoided, more sail bloomed on the _spray's_ mast and she danced lightly out of the way. the man with the shaggy curls looked back and waved a taunting hand. ramsay turned to watch, but the _spray_ disappeared in a curtain of mist that had draped itself between the _holter_ and the shore. his eyes shining, the boy turned to the deck hand. "who was that?" "a crazy dutch fisherman, named hans van doorst," the deck hand growled. "he'd sail that peanut shell right in to see old nick hisself, an' one of these days he will. he ain't even afraid of the white sturgeon." "what's the white sturgeon?" the deck hand looked at him queerly. "how long you been here, boy?" "a couple of days." "well, that accounts for it. you see the white sturgeon; you start prayin' right after. you'll need to. nobody except that crazy van doorst has ever saw him an' lived to tell about it. well, got to get to work." the deck hand wandered away. ramsay turned again to face the storm and let spray blow into his face. he thought of all that had happened since he had, at last, reached lake michigan. this wisconsin country was indeed a land of sharp contrasts. the _holter_ and the _spray_. captain schultz and the deck hand. devil chad and hans van doorst. a tannery and a fisherman. local superstition about a white sturgeon. ramsay knew a rising satisfaction. this semi-wilderness, lapped by a vast inland sea, might be a strange land, but nobody could say that it was not an interesting or a strong one. his last lingering doubts were set at rest and for the first time he was entirely satisfied because he had come. a strong country was always the place for strong people. ramsay raised his head, puzzled by something which, suddenly, seemed to be out of place. for a second he did not know what it was. then he realized that the crying gulls which had been following the _holter_ in the hope that scraps or garbage would be tossed to them or else interested in whatever debris the side wheel might churn up, were no longer there. ramsay knew a second's uneasiness, and he could not explain it. he did not know why he missed the gulls. it was just that they and their crying had seemed a part of the lake. now that they were gone, the lake was incomplete. the boy braced himself against a sudden, vicious burst of wind. even a land-lubber could tell that the storm's fury was increasing. a sharp patter of rain sliced like a shower of cold knives across the _holter's_ deck, and ramsay ducked his head. he raised it again, grinning sheepishly as he did so, then gripped the rail to steady himself. he watched with much interest as the storm raged even more strongly. it was driving directly out of the northwest, and it seemed to be perpetually re-born in the dark clouds that had possession of the sky. a howling wind accompanied it, and more shrapnel-bursts of rain. the waves rose to prodigious heights. dipping into them, the _holter_ seemed no more than a leaf on this tossing sea. turning, ramsay saw the helmsman clinging almost fiercely to his wheel, as though he would somehow soften the storm's rage by doing that. in his cage the little black horse nickered uncertainly. then there came something that was instantly apparent, even above the screaming wind. the rough rhythm of the _holter's_ throbbing engines seemed to halt. the ship shivered mightily, as though in pain. the engines stopped. chapter two _wreck_ shorn of her power, the _holter_ still followed her helmsman's course. but it became a listless, sluggish course. the ship was like a suddenly freed slave that does not know what to do with his own freedom. for six years she had plodded lake michigan, always with the biggest possible paying load and always working at top speed. many times she had groaned and protested, but she had been forced to obey the dictates of the engine that turned her side wheel. now the engine, the tyrant, was dead from misuse of its own power. but without it the _holter_ had neither mind nor will of her own. she smashed head-on into a mountainous wave that set her decks awash. for another moment or two she held her course, carried by her own momentum. then, slowly and unwillingly, as though afraid to do such a thing and not trusting herself to do it, she swung broadside to the waves. a muffled shout floated out of the engine room. fat little captain schultz, a slicker covering his round body and anxiety written on his face, was peering down an opened hatch. sluicing rain pelted the slicker and bounded off. ramsay's eyes found the deck hand. eyes wide and mouth agape, he was standing near the wheelhouse. naked terror was written on his face as he stared at something out in the lake. ramsay followed his gaze. to the starboard, the right side of the _holter_, the lake seemed strangely calm. it was as though the wind and the storm did not strike with outrageous strength there, and oddly as if that part of the water might be commanded by some inexplicable force. unable to tear his gaze away, expecting to see something special, ramsay kept his eyes riveted on the calm water. he saw a ripple, but not one born of storm and wind. there was something here that had nothing to do with the driving wind, or the cold rain, or even the tremendous waves. the deck hand covered his eyes with his hand. at that instant, a great white apparition swam up through the water. it was a ghost, a creature of nightmares, a terrible thing seen only in terror-ridden moments. ramsay controlled an impulse to shout or to flee. the thing came up to within inches of the surface and wallowed there like a greasy fat hog. whitish-gray, rather than pure white, it flipped an enormous tail while it sported near the surface. the thing, a fish, seemed fully nine feet long and possibly it carried a hundred pounds of weight for every foot. it bore no scales but seemed to be clothed in an overlapping series of armored plates. its snout, pointed somewhat like a pig's, was tipped with barbels, or feelers. dull eyes showed. again ramsay controlled his fear. the thing, sober judgment told him, was nothing more or less than a great sturgeon, the mightiest fish of these inland waters. the fact that it was white, rather than the conventional gray-green or olive-green, was of no significance whatever. all living creatures, from elephants down to mice, occasionally produced an albino. it was not beyond reason that there could be an albino sturgeon. ramsay watched while it swam, and some semblance of cool control returned to his fevered imagination. this was no grotesque monster from another world. telling himself again that it was nothing more or less than an unusual fish, he watched it sink back into the churning depths from which it had arisen. he put a shaking hand on the _holter's_ rail. it was a fish and nothing else. none but superstitious people believed in superstition. then the deck hand's terrified shriek rose above the keening wind. "it's him! we seen it! the white sturgeon! _gar-hhh!_" mouth agape, the deck hand kept his eyes on that place where the white sturgeon had disappeared. a great wave washed across the deck, and when it rolled away the deck hand was no longer visible. ramsay shook his head to clear it and looked again at the place where the deck hand had been standing. lake michigan could swallow a man even easier than a pond swallowed a pebble, for there had not been even a ripple to mark the place where the deck hand had disappeared. there was not the slightest possibility of rescuing him. the deck hand had seen the white sturgeon! a battering ram of a wave crashed into the _holter's_ starboard side, and ramsay felt a cold chill travel up and down his spine. fear laid its icy fingers there, but he shook them off. the fact that the water had been calm when the white sturgeon made its appearance and was angry now had nothing whatever to do with the fish. rather, the calm water could be attributed to some quirk, some phenomenon inherent in the storm itself. probably the white sturgeon appeared because, for the moment, the lake had been calm. knowing that, the big fish had nosed its way to the surface. now that the lake was again storm-deviled, the white sturgeon was gone. bracing himself against the wind, ramsay made his way across the deck to the wheelhouse. he shivered, for the first time aware of the fact that his clothing was rain-drenched and that he was very cold. it was a penetrating, creeping cold that reached the inmost marrow of his bones. when another wave smashed the _holter_, ramsay caught hold of the little horse's cage to steady himself. within the enclosure, nervous but still not terrified, the black horse looked hopefully at him. ramsay reached the wheelhouse, and came face to face with captain schultz. the little captain's slicker had blown open, so that now it was of no use whatever in warding off the rain, but he had not seen fit to close it again. it would do him no good if he did; his clothing was already soaked. ramsay shouted to make himself heard above the roar of the wind. "what happened?" "the enchin, she kaput. like that, she kaput." ramsay revised his opinions of the little captain. at the pier, captain schultz had been only a fat, fussy little man. facing this dire predicament, he was not terrified and had not given way to panic. he had risen to the emergency. maybe, ramsay thought, anyone who sailed lake michigan had to be able to rise to any emergency if he would continue to sail. he shouted again, "will the ship sink?" "ach, i don't know! if we can't get the enchin to go, she might." "what do we do then?" "find somet'ing. find anyt'ing, poy, an' swim. be sure you find somet'ing that does not sink mit you." "how far are we from land?" "ach! that i cannot tell you." "did you see the white sturgeon?" "yaah. we still try." captain schultz went all the way into the wheelhouse and disappeared into the hold. dimly, out of the open hatchway, came the sound of ringing hammers. there was a desperate tone in them, as though the men working in the _holter's_ hold were fully aware of the grave danger they faced. on sudden impulse ramsay ducked into the wheelhouse and descended into the engine-room. captain schultz held an oil lamp to illumine the labors of two men whom, so far, ramsay had not seen. presumably they were the _holter's_ engineer and fireman. another deck hand and the mate stood by, passing tools requested by the workers. down here, in the bowels of the _holter_, the storm seemed a faraway and almost an unreal thing. the howling wind was heard faintly, and if the ship had not been tossing so violently, they might have been in the power-room of any industrial plant. the sweating engineer, his face grease-streaked, turned from his labors to face ramsay. he spoke with a nasal new england twang. "was that white sturgeon really off the ship?" "i--i didn't see anything," ramsay answered. captain schultz flashed him a grateful smile. the workers went on with their toils. obviously, among lake michigan sailors, or anyhow some of them, there was a firm belief in the evil powers of the white sturgeon. ramsay looked again at the little captain's face. it was a concerned, worried face, what one might expect to see in a man who was in danger of losing his ship. at the same time, and even though captain schultz remained completely in command, there was about him a certain air that had nothing to do with getting the _holter's_ engine working again. ramsay sought for the answer, and finally he found it. a strong man in his own right, captain schultz had seen the white sturgeon and he believed in it. ramsay climbed the narrow ladder-way leading back to the deck. the _holter_ was strong, he assured himself. there was little danger that it could be pounded to pieces by any sea. then he looked at the wild and angry lake and knew the fallacy of his reasoning. the _holter_ was strong, but the lake was stronger. waves, the color of steel and with the strength of steel, smashed into the ship and made her shiver. ramsay heard a shrieking protest as some plank or stay beneath the deck tore loose. the _holter_ shuddered, like a big horse in pain, and settled so low in the water that waves washed continuously across her deck. there was another shriek, and she settled deeper into the lake. she was a very sluggish craft now, with no control or direction, and ramsay guessed that the hides in the hold were getting soaked. the ship's nose dipped to meet a wave, and it did not come up again. the imprisoned horse bugled his fright. captain schultz, the engineer, the fireman and the deck hand appeared on deck. there was no sign of the mate; perhaps he had already gone over. the engineer and the fireman struggled under the weight of a crude raft which they had knocked together from such timbers as were available. ramsay looked uncertainly toward them, and the engineer glared back. "get your own!" he snarled. "me an' pete made this, an' me an' pete are goin' to use it!" they carried their makeshift raft to the settling nose of the ship, laid it down, mounted it, and let the next wave carry them off. ramsay felt a turning nausea in the pit of his stomach. as the raft went over the rail, the man called pete was swept from it. only the engineer stayed on, clinging desperately as he was washed out into the angry lake. in a second or two he had disappeared. captain schultz rolled frightened eyes and said to ramsay, "get a door, or hatch cover, an' ride that." suiting his actions to his words, captain schultz seized a fire axe that was hanging near and pounded the wheelhouse door from its hinges. he dragged the door to the rail, threw it into the lake, and jumped after it. the deck hand wrestled with a hatch cover, finally pried it loose, and rode that away. ramsay was left alone on the sinking _holter_. he tried to keep a clear head, but he could not help an overwhelming fear. this was nothing he had ever faced before and now, facing it, he did not know what to do. finding anything that would float and riding it away seemed to be the answer. then the little horse bugled and he knew that he was not alone. water crept around his feet as he made his way across the deck to the cage. he put his hand on the bar, and as soon as he did that the little horse thrust a soft, warm nose against it. he muzzled ramsay's hand with almost violent intensity. all his life he had depended upon men for everything. now, in this peril, men would not desert him. softly ramsay stroked the soft muzzle, but only for a second. the _holter_ was going down fast. soon, as the gloomy deck hand had forecast, she would be on the bottom of lake michigan. there was no time to lose. ramsay unlatched the door of the cage, opened it, and when he did that the horse walked out. he stayed very near to the boy, fearing to leave, and once or twice bumped ramsay with his shoulder. ramsay studied the angry lake, and looked back at the horse. again he glanced out on the stormy water. there was nothing else in sight. those who, by one way or another, hoped to reach shore were already lost in swirling sheets of rain. ramsay bit his lower lip so hard that he drew blood. the men had either jumped, or else had merely ridden over the rail on a wave that set the decks awash, but the horse could not do that. there was real danger of his breaking a leg, or becoming otherwise injured, if he tried. ramsay turned and caught up the axe with which captain schultz had stricken down the door. the black horse crowded with him, afraid to be alone, and the boy had to go around him to get back to the rail. the horse pushed close to him again and ramsay spoke soothingly, "easy. take it easy now." he raised the axe and swung it, and felt its blade bite deeply into the wooden rail. he swung again and again, until he had slashed through it, then moved ten feet to one side, toward the rail's supporting post, and cut it there. the severed section was whisked into the wave-tormented lake as a match stick disappears in a whirlpool. ramsay threw the axe back onto the _holter's_ sinking deck and stepped aside. get something that would float, captain schultz had said, and be sure that it would keep him above water. but suddenly he could think of nothing that would float. wildly he cast about for a hatch cover or a door. there was not one to be seen. the _holter_ made a sudden list that carried her starboard deck beneath the lake. a wave surged across her. even the little horse had unsteady legs. ramsay tried hard to overcome the terror within him. then, together, he and the little horse were in the lake. he threw wild arms about the animal's neck, and a huge wave overwhelmed them. gasping, he arose. the lake was wilder and fiercer and colder than he had thought it could be. every nerve and muscle in his body seemed chilled, so that he was barely able to move. another wave washed in, over both the little black horse and himself, and for a moment they were deep beneath the churning waters. they broke onto the surface, ramsay with both hands entwined in the horse's mane, and the horse turned to look at him. there was uncertainty in the animal's eyes, and fright, but no terror. the little horse knew his own power, and the fact that a human being stayed with him gave him confidence in that strength. ramsay spoke reassuringly. "we're all right. we'll do all right, black. let's get out of it." the words were a tonic, the inspiration the horse needed. the next time a wave rolled in, he did not try to fight it. rather, he rose with it, swimming strongly. he had adjusted himself to many situations, now he met this one without panic. an intelligent beast, he had long ago learned that every crisis must be met with intelligence. ramsay stayed easily beside him, keeping just enough weight on the swimming animal to hold his own head above water and doing nothing that would interfere with the furious fight the horse was waging to keep from drowning. the lake was indeed cold, colder than any other water the boy had ever known, and he had to exercise every particle of his mind and will just to cling to the horse. the wind blew furiously, and sluicing rain poured down. then the rain dwindled away and heavy mist settled in. ramsay knew a moment's panic. it was impossible to see more than a few feet or to tell which way the shore lay. the lake was huge, and should they be heading towards the michigan shore, they would never get there. ramsay tried to remember all he had ever known of wind and drift and currents on lake michigan, and discovered that he could remember nothing. any direction at all could be north and he was unable to orient himself, but he controlled the rising panic. it would do no good at all to lose his head. the wind seemed to be dying, and the waves lessening. ramsay kept his hold on the little horse's mane. he saw a floating object pass and tried to catch it, but when he did so he almost lost his hold on the horse. kicking hard to catch up, he twined both hands in the horse's mane and tightened them there. then he felt a rebirth of confidence. already they had been in the lake for a long, long time and he had been able to hold his own. it was impossible to get much colder, or more numb, than he already was and he could still hang on. besides, the horse seemed to know where he was going. he swam strongly, and apparently he was swimming straight. at any rate, there was no evidence that he was traveling in circles or choosing an erratic course. ramsay had been told that animals have an instinct compared to which the most sensitive human's is coarse and blunted and maybe that was true. maybe the horse did know where it was going. now that the waves were not rising so high, the horse swam faster. the wind died almost completely, so that the lake's surface was merely ruffled, and ramsay felt a mounting confidence in his ability to live through this. in the overcast a gull cried, and things had started going wrong with the _holter_ when the gulls left it. now they were back. probably they, too, had known of the approaching storm and had flown to safety off the lake. the swimmers broke out of the mist and ramsay saw the beach. it was about a hundred yards away, a sand beach behind which a rocky cliff rose. this wore a crest of evergreens, and its face was spotted here and there with smaller trees. a cloud of white gulls screamed into the air as ramsay and the horse approached. they reached the shallows, and the little horse's back emerged from the water like that of some suddenly appearing sea monster. ramsay let go his hold on the animal's mane and swam. then, coming to waist-high water in which he could wade, he splashed toward the beach. the wind had died, but waves still pounded the beach and it was very cold. the near borders of this wild lake, ramsay decided, probably never warmed up. with an immense body of cold water lapping them, they were perpetually chilled. while the little horse looked gravely on, ramsay stripped his clothing off, wrung it out, and put the wet garments back on. the horse crowded very close, as though he were afraid to go away. he nibbled ramsay with his lips. as soon as the boy moved, he moved with him. he stayed very near as ramsay walked up the beach, a stretch of driftwood-spotted sand that varied from sixty to two hundred feet in width and reached clear back to the rising bluff. a belt of wet sand showed where the lake had crawled up onto the beach and fallen back. the boy stopped suddenly, and the little horse stopped with him. just ahead, in the belt of wet sand which the highest waves had washed, lay two tumbled figures. the little horse tossed his head uneasily, not liking this at all, and ramsay felt a cold lump rise in his throat. he advanced at a slow walk and, after some hesitation, the horse trotted to catch up with him. ramsay stopped again. the two drowned people were captain schultz of the _holter_ and the deck hand who had wished so fervently that he was somewhere else. ramsay cleared the lump in his throat, and was struck by the notion that at last the deck hand had gone somewhere else. then the black horse raised his head and nickered, and the boy looked around to see a man on a spotted black-and-white horse riding toward him. he rode at full trot, the reins hanging loosely around his mount's throat, and he wore an outlandish sort of affected cowboy's hat pulled low over his eyes. his features were heavy, and would be flabby when he had aged a few more years. blue jeans clung tightly around his legs, and straight black hair lay thick on his head. as he rode, he leveled a heavy pistol. "go on! beat it!" "but ..." "this is my find! i said beat it!" the pistol roared, and a heavy ball buried itself in the sand at ramsay's feet. the boy felt a quick anger and a disinclination to obey the order to leave. he took a step toward the horseman, knowing that he would need a few seconds to re-load his pistol. but almost by magic another pistol appeared in the man's hand and he leveled it steadily. "your last warnin'. go on!" ramsay shrugged, and the black horse followed him as he walked on. this was indeed a strange land, where men were willing to fight for the possession of corpses. what did the horseman want with them? the loot they might have in their pockets? perhaps, but that seemed very unlikely. captain schultz was not the type of person who would carry a great deal of money in his pockets, and certainly the deck hand wouldn't have enough to bother about. but obviously the horseman wanted the two bodies. ramsay walked on up the sand beach. gulls rose protestingly as he came in sight, and flocks of ducks scudded across the water. a pair of canada geese hissed at him as he passed. they were guarding a nest and they were ready to fight for it. ramsay gave them a wide berth and the horse walked faithfully beside him. the afternoon was half-spent when ramsay smelled wood smoke. he quickened his pace, but remained cautious. this was a wild land, with no part of it wilder than this lonely lake michigan beach, and there was never any certainty as to just what anyone would find or how he would be received. nevertheless, if these people were friendly, other humans would be welcome. ramsay was both hungry and tired to the point of exhaustion. he fingered the two dollars in his pocket. he could pay his way. he rounded a long, forested nose of land where the bluff cut the sand beach to a narrow five feet and looked out on a peaceful bay. the bluff gave way to gently rising, treeless hills. a rail fence hemmed part of them in, and black-and-white cattle grazed inside the fence. a stone house, of dutch architecture, stood on a knoll that commanded a view of the lake, and a suitable distance from it was a snug wooden barn. a small lake, or large pond, separated from lake michigan by a narrow neck of land, glowed like a blue sapphire. chickens, ducks and geese crowded noisily together in the barnyard, and a man with a wooden pail in his hand came out of the barn door. ramsay walked forward, as first uncertainly and then very steadily. a man might be afraid, but it was always to his advantage not to let the enemy, if enemy this might be, know he was afraid. the man at the barn door hesitated, and then stood still while the boy approached. ramsay greeted him pleasantly, "hello." "hello." the man was tall and supple, with a frank, open face and intelligent, blue eyes. he was perhaps six years older than ramsay and he spoke with a dutch accent. ramsay said, "i was sailing up to three points on the _holter_. now she's wrecked and i must walk...." "the _holter's_ wrecked?" the other broke in. "yes." "any drowned people on the beach?" "two, but a man on a black-and-white horse took them away from me at pistol point." ramsay knew a rising impatience. "why the dickens should he do that?" the other grinned faintly. "you get money for watching 'em until they can be brought in and buried proper, and money is not easy to come by. if there's a man already watching these, that would be joe mannis. he combs the beach night and day after storms, and he's got as much money as most people. what can i do for you?" "i'd like something to eat before i go on to three points." "that we can give you," the farmer said. "come." when the horse would have followed them to the house, the dutch farmer looked quizzically at ramsay. the boy grinned. "he's not mine. he was on the _holter_ and we swam ashore together. without him i might not have made it." "then he is yours," the farmer said. "by right of salvage he is yours. but marta, she wouldn't like a horse in the house." "it's hardly the place for a horse," ramsay agreed. "can we leave him here?" "yaah." the farmer opened the barnyard gate and ramsay walked in. the horse followed willingly. ramsay stepped out and shut the gate. he saw the little horse, its head over the bars, watching him as he walked toward the house. it was a clean house, and a scrubbed and shiny one. even the big flat stone that served as a back doorstep had almost an antiseptic cleanliness. the house was filled with the odors of freshly baked bread and spice and canned jam and curing hams. ramsay smiled at the slim, pleasant girl who met them at the door. "marta," the farmer said, "this man was ship-wrecked and is to be our guest for as long as he wants to stay. he is...?" "ramsay cartou," ramsay supplied. "yaah! ramsay cartou. i am pieter van hooven and this is my wife, marta." ramsay made himself comfortable in the neat kitchen while marta van hooven hurried efficiently about, preparing a meal. there was baked whitefish, venison, roasted goose, fluffy mashed potatoes, crisp salad, billowy fresh rolls, delicious cheese and milk. ramsay ate until he could eat no more, then pushed himself away from the table and smiled graciously at marta van hooven. "that was good!" he said feelingly. "you ate so little." ramsay grinned, "not more than enough to feed three good-sized horses. you can really cook." pieter van hooven glowed at this compliment extended to his wife. he filled and lighted a clay pipe, and puffed contentedly. "what are you going to do now?" he asked ramsay. "i," ramsay hesitated, "i'd like to pay for the meal." pieter van hooven smiled. "forget that. you were our guest." "how far is three points?" "six miles. just stay on the beach." "reckon i'll go up there then. i've got a job waiting for me at the tannery. by the way, do you have any use for that horse?" "a good horse can always be used on a farm. but i won't take him. i'll keep him, and you can have him any time you want." pieter van hooven looked queerly at ramsay. "you sure you want to go to three points?" "i've got a job there, and i need it." "then go, but remember that nobody starves in wisconsin. marta and me, we got no money but we got everything else. you don't like it in three points, you might come back here?" "i'll be glad to," ramsay said, a little puzzled. "then do that, my friend." well-fed and rested, ramsay walked alone up the sandy beach. stay on the sand, pieter van hooven had advised him, and he couldn't go wrong. three points, the tannery town, was right on the lake. two hours after he left the van hoovens, ramsay reached the village. three points nestled snugly in a gap which, only recently, had been hacked out of the hemlock forest. many big trees still stood on the edge of town, and some right in the center; and most of the houses were built of hemlock logs. there were a few, evidently belonging to three points' wealthier residents, that were massively built and patterned after the new england style of architecture. there was no mistaking the tannery; the smell would have guided one there, even if the mountains of hemlock bark piled all about had not. ramsay entered the long, low, shed-like building, and a man working at a steaming vat looked up curiously. ramsay approached him with "who's the boss man around here?" "i am," an unseen man said. ramsay whirled to look at the man who had spoken, and he came face to face with devil chad. chapter three _on the beach_ ramsay felt an instant tension and a bristling anger, and he knew now that he should have connected two incidents. the man who had written to him and offered him a job in the three points tannery had signed his name 'devlin chadbourne.' devlin chadbourne--devil chad--and ramsay took a backward step. never before had he met a man so capable of arousing in him a cordial dislike that was almost an urge to start fighting immediately. "where's the _holter_?" devil chad demanded. "i sent her back to milwaukee after captain schultz let me off here," ramsay said sarcastically. "don't get smart with me, boy." devil chad glowered. "you was on the _holter_ when she sailed." "where were you?" ramsay demanded. "i'll ask the questions here!" devil chad's thick lips curled in an ugly oblong. "where's the _holter_?" "at the bottom of lake michigan!" ramsay flared. "captain schultz and one of your deck hands are lying drowned on the beach! i don't know where the others are." devil chad's glass balls of eyes glinted. his face twisted into a horrible glare, and every inch of his big frame seemed to shrink and swell with the rage that consumed him. "you mean to tell me," he demanded furiously, "that all them hides was lost?" "men were lost," ramsay pointed out. "you mean to tell me," devil chad repeated, as though he had not heard ramsay, "that all them hides was lost?" "swim out and get 'em," ramsay invited. "i'll show you the place where i landed, and the _holter_ can't be more than a couple of miles out in the lake." "what did schultz do?" devil chad demanded. "drowned." "you're pretty flip, boy," devil chad warned, "an' i don't put up with flip people. you tell me what happened." "your greasy tub was carrying one third more than ever should have been put on her, her equipment was no good, we ran into a storm and the engines quit." "all them hides lost." devil chad was overwhelmed by this personal tragedy and could think of nothing else. "couldn't you of done somethin'?" "it wasn't my ship and they weren't my hides. what are you going to do for the families of the men who were lost?" "why should i do anything? they knew when they signed on that they was runnin' risks." devil chad turned his unreadable eyes squarely on ramsay. "what do you want here?" "nothing." "ain't you the boy who wrote me from new york, an' asked me for a job?" the man at the vat continued working and others stayed at their tasks, but ramsay was aware of a rippling under-current. there was an uneasiness among the men, and a fear; and in spite of the fact that they kept busy they turned covert eyes on ramsay and devil chad. the boy felt a flashing anger. who was this man, and what was he, that so many others could live in almost craven fear of him? "if you are," devil chad continued, still holding ramsay in the cage of his eyes, "you can have the job but i hold back twenty-five cents a day until them hides are paid for." "take your job!" ramsay exploded, "and go plumb to the bottom of the lake with it!" "i warned you, boy," devil chad was talking softly now. "i warned you. i don't put up with flip people, an' now i'm goin' to teach you the lesson that i should of given you on the _holter_." "why didn't you sail on the _holter_?" ramsay demanded. devil chad made no answer. he was in a half-crouch, his huge head bent to his chest and his fists knotted so tightly that the knuckles were whitened. his shaggy hair tumbled forward on his forehead, and his eyes still held no expression. ramsay raised his voice so all in the building could hear. "you filthy pup! you lily-livered slug! you knew the _holter_ was going to the bottom some day! even your deck hand knew it! you sent other men out to die, but didn't risk yourself! you haven't got enough money to hire me to work for you!" devil chad was inching forward, his head still bent; and when he had advanced a foot, he sprang. it was the rush of a bull, but not a cumbersome bull. he flung out both arms, intending to crush ramsay to his chest and break his ribs. it was the only way devil chad knew how to fight, but the boy knew other tricks. when the bigger, heavier man launched his charge, ramsay stood still. he saw those massive stretched arms, and knew their purpose, but he did not move until devil chad flung them out for his crushing embrace. then, and only then, did ramsay act. he flitted aside, balancing himself on the balls of his feet and whirling even as he evaded the other's lunge. like a snapping whip his clenched right fist flicked in to deliver a stinging blow to the side of his enemy's head. but the blow did little except spin devil chad around and arouse a mighty bellow in the depths of his enormous chest. ramsay remained poised, alert for the next charge, and an almost grim satisfaction drove other thoughts from his mind. he had not wanted this fight and had not forced it, but within him there was a curious feeling that it was fore-ordained, and now that it was here, he relished it. devil chad was not a man. he was an animal who thought as an animal thinks. other men, other human beings, had lost their lives in his overloaded, unseaworthy ship, and all this brute could think of was the fact that he had lost his cargo. devil chad's eyes, even in the heat of battle, remained opaque and strangely without expression. it was only his face, like a rubber mask expertly molded to form an expression of rage, that betrayed his fury. he swung heavily, running forward even as he launched his blow, and ramsay ducked beneath it. he came up to land a hard left and a right on devil chad's jaw. he might as well have struck a granite boulder. devil chad did not even flinch and the boy knew a moment's uncertainty. his enemy was a bull, but bulls were felled with pole-axes, not with fists. ramsay backed lightly away. all about now, knowing that devil chad was engrossed in the fight and had no time for them, men had openly stopped work and were staring at the battlers. on the faces of some was written incredulity. some looked on with delighted interest, and an expectant smile lighted the swarthy features of a little frenchman who had stopped moving cattle hides to watch ramsay weave away from devil chad. there was no man here who, in some silent way, did not cheer the boy on, but there were none who expected him to win. all knew their master. devil chad rushed again, swinging his fists like pistons as he did so, and again ramsay side-stepped. he landed a fierce blow squarely on the other's nose and was gratified to see a crimson stream of blood spout forth to mingle darkly with his antagonist's black beard and mustache. a cold uncertainty rose within ramsay. he had fought before, many times, and he had defeated his opponents and had been defeated, but never before had he fought a man just like this one. devil chad, apparently, was able to absorb an endless amount of punishment with no effect whatever on himself. he was as tough as one of the trees that grew on the outskirts of three points. ramsay risked a fleeting backward glance to see where he was going, and edged away from the wall. he was breathing hard because of the tremendous physical effort he had exerted, but he was far from exhausted and he knew that, as long as he could keep the battle in the open, he could avoid the other's charges. but the certainty that he could not win this battle solidified. it seemed possible to pound devil chad all day long without hurting him at all. "kill him!" an excited man shouted. devil chad paused just long enough to locate and identify this rash employee who dared encourage his enemy, and ramsay felt a nausea in the pit of his stomach. when the battle ended, no matter who won, at least one man would have some explaining to do and probably a beating to take. the boy kept his eyes on devil chad, anticipating the other's next move. then he tripped over an unseen and unsuspected block of wood and fell backward. even as he fell he tried to pick himself up and scoot out of the way. but a bludgeon, the toe of devil chad's heavy boot, collided soddenly with his ribs and a sickening pain shot through his entire body. he turned, snatching furiously at the boot as it was raised again and still trying to wriggle away. his arm flipped convulsively as devil chad kicked him squarely on the wrist, and he felt a creeping numbness that began there and spread to his shoulder. he rolled to escape his tormentor, rolled again, and struggled to his hands and knees. vaguely, as though he were viewing it in some fantastic dream, he saw the big black boot flying at his head. the boot was a huge thing and so clearly-outlined that ramsay saw every tiny wrinkle in it. he was aware of the stitching where the ponderous sole joined the upper leather, and he knew that he must get away. but that was a vague and misty thought, one he seemed unable to carry farther. a mighty rage flared within him. no more than a split second elapsed before the boot struck, but it seemed like hours. ramsay was aware of the fact that his two silver dollars, his last money, rolled out of his pockets and across the tannery's floor. a thousand colored lights danced in his head, and then he was back on the lake. he had loved the lake, he remembered, and there was something wonderfully cool and refreshing about returning to it. a small boat with a crazy dutch fisherman at her tiller danced out of the lake's gray stretches and sported gracefully before him. on top of the mast was a tame sea gull that clicked his mandibles and fluttered his wings. ramsay even saw the boat's name written in fine script across her bows. she was the _spray_. the _spray_ hove to very close to ramsay, and her skipper looked at him. he was a tall man, very powerful, and he was blond and easily laughing. there was no grimness about him, only grace and light spirit. several men had gone sailing on a raft made of cattle hides, he told ramsay, and they were in great trouble out on the lake. did ramsay care to go with him and help bring the unfortunates safely back? the sea gull, of course, would help too. when ramsay pretended not to hear, the crazy dutch fisherman obligingly repeated his information. again ramsay pretended not to hear; whereupon the dutch fisherman caught up a wooden bucket, dipped it into the lake and showered him with ice-cold water. he held the bucket waist-high, as though wondering whether more water was necessary, and the twinkle remained in his eyes and the laugh on his lips. it was impossible to be angry with him. laughing back, ramsay agreed to go help the foolish men who had sailed away on the cattle hides. then he awakened, to find a woman bathing his face with cold water. for a moment she was a distorted picture, a hazy vision that advanced toward him and retreated far away. again ramsay almost lost himself in the dim world into which devil chad's boots had kicked him. the cold cloth on his face brought him back, and he opened his eyes to see the woman very clearly. she was small, with a worn face, so weary from endless toil that the skin was drawn tightly over it. but her eyes were the brownest, the softest and the gentlest ramsay had ever seen. black hair was combed smoothly back on her head and caught in a knot at the base of her neck. again she laid the cold cloth on his face, and the boy closed his eyes at the luxury of such a thing. then he spoke, "where am i?" "_sh-h._ don't try to talk, m'sieu." the woman, unmistakably french, rose and went into another room. ramsay looked about him. the room in which he lay was walled with rough, unplaned boards, and the ceiling was made of the same material. only the floor, scrubbed so carefully that it glowed like a polished diamond, was of smooth boards. light was admitted by a single small pane of glass, and the light reflected on a crucifix that hung on the far wall. there were a few pictures, yellow with age, a table over which a deer skin was gracefully draped, and a candle-holder with a half-burned candle. everything was neat and spotlessly clean. the woman came back bearing a hollowed-out gourd. she passed an arm around ramsay's shoulders--despite her small size she was surprisingly strong--and assisted him to a half-sitting position. she held the gourd to his lips. ramsay drank deeply, and fell back sputtering. the gourd was partly-filled with cold water and partly with a whisky, so strong and violent that it burned his mouth and lips. he lay blinking, while tears welled in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. the whisky, doubtless homemade, was strong enough to choke a horse. but, after a half-minute, it made itself felt. a warm glow spread from the roots of ramsay's hair to the tips of his toes. some of his many aches and pains lessened. "more?" the woman inquired softly. "uh ... no--no thank you." she put the gourd on the table and came over to lay a hand on his forehead. it was a calloused and work-hardened hand, but so gentle was she that her caress was scarcely a feather's touch. ramsay smiled his thanks. "how did i get here?" he asked again. "my man, pierre ledou, he brought you. but now you must rest, m'sieu, and try to sleep. badly have you been hurt." the woman drew an exquisite, hand-sewn lace curtain, an incongruous thing in these rough surroundings, over the window, and semi-gloom reigned in the room. she tiptoed out, closing the door behind her, and ramsay was left alone with his thoughts. that mighty rage mounted within him again. he had been fighting with devil chad, he remembered, and not doing badly until he fell over some unseen object. then he had been kicked into--into this. experimentally ramsay tried to move his legs, and found that he could do so. he clenched and unclenched his fists, and there in the half-light of an unknown room, in a stranger's house, he made a solemn vow. one day, no matter what else happened, he and devil chad would meet again. devil chad would pay, in full, for every twinge ramsay suffered. in that moment ramsay knew that he was not afraid. his burning anger became tempered with pleasant wonder. this was a harsh land, but there was room for tenderness. he was a stranger and had been in three points only long enough to get himself kicked into insensibility, but there were those in three points who knew compassion and friendship. otherwise, he would not now be lying in some unknown man's house and being ministered to by that man's wife. pierre--ramsay strove to recall the last name and could not. he fell into a quiet slumber. the next time he awakened, the candle on his table was burning and his host--vaguely ramsay remembered seeing him move hides about the tannery--was standing near. like his wife, he was small and gentle, with a manner that belied the fierce little black mustache clinging to his upper lip. he was too small and gentle, ramsay thought, ever to fit into a town such as three points. but certainly he was kind and good. he smiled, revealing flashing white teeth, and when he did ramsay remembered the name, pierre ledou. "how do you feel?" he asked briskly. "better." ramsay grinned. "he beat you," pierre ledou said. "_sacre!_ but he beat you!" the little man's eyes roved about the room, as though seeking the solution to a problem which he must solve, and ramsay knew that he, too, hated devil chad. "he kicked you!" pierre ledou said. "i know, and some day i'll pay him back for that." interest brightened in the little frenchman's eyes. "you think so, m'sieu--m'sieu ..." "cartou," ramsay said. "ramsay cartou. and i will not kill anybody unless i have to. but one day this devil chad will pay, ten times over, for everything he did to me." "he is very hard man." pierre ledou sighed. "so am i!" ramsay gritted, and again anger rose within him. "why should so many people tremble in their boots when he comes around?" pierre ledou shrugged eloquently. "the job. a man has to have the job." "i see. and devil chad controls 'the job'?" "not all," pierre ledou explained. "he does not walk so freely where the fishermen and farmers are." "i'm beginning to like these fishermen and farmers more and more." "they are nice," pierre agreed, "but wild. especially the fishermen. oh, so wild! out in the lake they go, afraid of nothing; but those that do not drown return with multitudes of fish." "do many drown?" "very many, but you cannot kill a fisherman. they say that the lake sends back two for every one it takes, and maybe that is so. at any rate, when a fisherman drowns, two more always appear. i would go fishing myself were it not that i am afraid. are you hungry, m'sieu?" "yes," ramsay answered frankly. "then i will get you something to eat." pierre ledou disappeared. ramsay lay back on the bed to think. now this half-wild, half-tame country into which he had come was assuming a definite pattern. some, like pierre ledou, had been attracted by the endless wealth offered, and had found only a back-breaking job with devil chad or his counterpart. others, and ramsay thought of hans van doorst and pieter van hooven, were finding wealth. it was not wealth that could be measured in terms of money; probably the crazy dutch fisherman and pieter van hooven had little money, but just the same it was wealth. rather than toil meekly for someone else and obey a master's every wish, they had chosen to discover for themselves the true richness of this endlessly rich land and they were discovering it. so some were afraid and some were not; and those who were not seemed to enjoy life at its fullest. and, as usual, there was the arrogant overlord, devil chad, who wanted everything for himself and who would take it if he could. he did not care what he did or whom he killed, as long as he got what he wanted. pierre ledou came back, bearing a bowl on a wooden platter. ramsay sniffed hungrily. the bowl was old and cracked, but like everything else in the house it was scrupulously clean, and the odors wafted from it would tempt the appetite of a dying man. pierre put the bowl and a wooden spoon down where ramsay could reach them, and ramsay saw a meat stew in which fluffy dumplings floated. "it is not much," the little frenchman apologized. "venison stew with dumplings, and that is all. would you like some spirits to go with it?" "uh!" ramsay remembered the fiery liquor. "no thanks. i would like some water." "i can offer you milk." "that will be fine." pierre disappeared, and returned with a bowl of milk and a beaker of the strong whisky. he gave the bowl to ramsay and held the whisky aloft. "your health, m'sieu," he said. he drained the beaker without even quivering, and ramsay suppressed a shudder. dipping the spoon in his venison stew, he tasted it. it was rich, with all the expertness of french cuisine behind it, and delicious. ramsay took a chunk of venison in his mouth and chewed it with relish. venison, fish and whatever else they could get out of the country doubtless meant much to the people who lived here. "how long have you worked in the tannery?" he asked pierre. "five years," the little frenchman said. "five long years. i shall work there much longer if god is kind." "may he always be kind to you!" ramsay said feelingly. "my thanks to you, m'sieu ramsay. and now, with your permission, i shall retire. i suggest that you sleep, for you look very weary. should you want anything you have only to call." ramsay fell into a restful slumber from which he was awakened by the sound of people stirring. the early morning sun, just rising, caressed the curtained window softly and a sleepy bird twittered outside the window. there was the sound of lifted stove lids and of people stirring. ramsay dozed off, then sprang guiltily awake and jumped out of bed. he felt good, with only an occasional twinge of pain here and there. hastily he pulled on his trousers and shirt, laced his shoes and smoothed his rumpled hair with his hand. when he had made himself as presentable as he could, he went into the other room. though the hour was still early and the sun not yet fairly up, pierre ledou had already left for his work in the tannery. his pleasant wife was pouring hot water from a pan on the stove into a big wooden bowl, evidently the receptacle in which dishes were washed. she turned around. "good morning!" ramsay said cheerfully. "good morning, m'sieu." then she cautioned him. "should you be out of bed?" "i feel fine." ramsay grinned. "strong as a bull and twice as hungry." "then i will prepare you something to eat. if m'sieu cares to do so, he may wash just outside the door." "thanks." ramsay went out the door. to one side, in front of the house, there was a big wooden bowl and two wooden pails filled with water. a well-worn trail threading away from the door obviously led to a well or spring. hanging on a wooden peg driven into a hole, drilled in the cabin's wall, were a clean towel and washcloth. even the door's hinges, cleverly carved pins that turned on holes drilled into wooden blocks attached to the cabin's wall, were wood. evidently, in this country, wood substituted for metal. ramsay filled the bowl with water, washed himself and went back into the cabin. pierre ledou's wife was bending over a skillet from which came the smell of frying fish. ramsay sniffed hungrily, and licked his lips. she turned the fish, let it cook a little while longer, and put it on the table, along with feather-light biscuits, butter and cold milk. ramsay ate hungrily, but tried to curb his appetite so he would also eat decently, and as he ate he talked. "why," he asked pierre ledou's wife, "did your husband bring me here?" "you were hurt and needed help," she said simply. in sudden haste ramsay felt his pocket, and discovered that the two silver dollars were gone. he remembered that he had lost them while he fought with devil chad, and a flood of embarrassment almost overwhelmed him. "i--i have no money to pay you," he said awkwardly. for the first time she looked reprovingly at him. "we did not ask for money, m'sieu. one does not." ramsay knew another awkward moment and a little shame. "it is very good of you," he said. she said, "one does not neglect a fellow human." ramsay finished eating and pushed his dishes back. pierre ledou's wife, who had already finished washing the rest of the dishes, put ramsay's in the dish water and left them there. she smiled at him. "it would be well if you rested." "i'm not tired. really i'm not." "you should rest. badly were you hurt." "let me sit here a while." "as long as you sit." she went to a cupboard and took from it a big ball of strong linen thread. from the table she caught up a small board. wrapping the thread twice around the board, she knotted it. slipping the thread from the board, she hung the loop she had made on a wooden peg and made a new loop. her hands flew so swiftly that in a few moments she had seventeen of the meshes, all joined together. "what are you doing?" ramsay inquired interestedly. "making a gill net," she explained. "it was ordered by baptiste leclair, a fisherman, and is to have a four and a half-inch mesh. so we use a mesh board that is exactly two and a quarter inches wide and wrap the thread twice around. now i have seventeen. see?" "i see." she strung the seventeen meshes on a wooden rod, placed two chairs far enough apart so that the meshes stretched, tied the rod to them and began knitting on the net she had started. "the net is to be seventeen meshes, or seventy-six and one-half inches, wide. now i lengthen it." under the boy's interested eyes the gill net grew swiftly, and as it lengthened she wrapped it around the rod. ramsay watched every move. "how long will it be?" he queried. "one net," she told him, "is about two hundred and fifty feet long. but usually several are tied together to form a box of nets. a box is about fourteen hundred feet." "isn't that a lot?" she smiled. "a crew of three good men, like hans van doorst or baptiste leclair, with a good mackinaw boat can handle two boxes." "could you make this net longer if you wished to?" "oh, yes. it could be many miles long. two hundred and fifty feet is a good length for one net because, if it is torn by strong water or heavy fish, it may be untied and repaired while the rest may still be used." "what else must you do?" "after the net is two hundred and fifty feet long, i will use fifteenor sixteen-thread twine through from three to six meshes on the outer edge. this, in turn, will be tied to ninety-thread twine which extends the full length." ramsay was amazed at the way this quiet little woman reeled off these figures, as though she were reciting a well-learned lesson. but he wanted to know even more. "how do they set such a net?" "the fishermen gather small, flat stones, about three to the pound, and cut a groove around them so that they can be suspended from a rope. these are called sinkers, and are tied to the net about nine feet apart. for floats they use cedar blocks, about two feet long by one-quarter of an inch thick and an inch and a quarter wide. they bore a small hole one inch from the end, then split the block to the bored hole. the floats--and the number they use depends on the depth to which they sink the net--are pushed over the ninety-thread twine." "let me try!" ramsay was beginning to feel the effects of idleness and wanted action. "but of course, m'sieu." ramsay took the mesh board in his hand and, as he had seen her do, wrapped the thread twice around it. but, though it had looked simple when she did it, there was a distinct knack to doing it right. the mesh board slipped from his fingers and the twine unwound. madame ledou laughed. "let me show you." patiently, carefully, she guided his fingers through the knitting of a mesh, then another and a third and fourth. ramsay felt a rising elation. he had liked the _spray_ when he saw her and now he liked this. fishing, from the making of the nets to setting them, seemed more than ever a craft that was almost an art. he knitted a row of meshes across the gill net, and happily surveyed his work. at the same time he remained aware of the fact that she could knit three times as fast as he. ramsay thrust his tongue into his cheek and grimly continued at his work. after an hour madame ledou said soberly, "you do right well, m'sieu. but should you not rest now?" ramsay said, "this is fun." "it is well that you enjoy yourself. would you consider it uncivil if i left you for a while?" "please do what you must." she left, and ramsay continued to work on the net. as he did, his skill improved. though he was still unable to knit as swiftly as madame ledou, he could make a good net. and there was a feel, a tension, to the thread. within itself the thread had life and being. it was supple, strong and would not fail a fisherman who depended upon it. madame ledou returned, smiled at him and went unobtrusively about the task of preparing a lunch. so absorbed was he in his net-making that he scarcely tasted the food. all afternoon he worked on the net. madame ledou said approvingly, "you make a good net, m'sieu. you have knitted almost four pounds of thread into this one. the most skilled net-makers, those who have had years of experience, cannot knit more than six or seven pounds in one day." twilight shadows were lengthening when pierre ledou returned. the little man, as always, was courteous. but behind his inherited gallic grace and manners lay a troubled under-current. pierre spoke in rapid french to his wife, and she turned worried eyes on their guest. ramsay stopped knitting the net. all afternoon there had been growing upon him an awareness that he could not continue indefinitely to accept the ledou's hospitality, and now he knew that he must go. the pattern had definite shape, and the reason behind pierre's uneasiness was not hard to fathom. devil chad was the ruler, and devil chad must rule. who harbored his enemy must be his enemy, and pierre ledou needed the job in the tannery. should he lose it, the ledous could not live. with an air of spontaneity, anxious not to cause his host and hostess any embarrassment, ramsay rose and smiled. "it has been a most enjoyable stay at your home," he said. "but of course it cannot continue. i have work to find. if you will be kind enough to shelter me again tonight, i will go tomorrow, and i shall never forget the ledous." chapter four _trouble for the_ spray early the next morning, when pierre departed for work, ramsay bade farewell to madame ledou and left their house with his kind host. he did so with a little reluctance, now that all his money was gone and the future loomed more uncertainly than ever. at the same time there was about him a rising eagerness and an unfulfilled expectation. it seemed to him that, since swimming ashore from the sinking _holter_, he had ceased to be a boy and had become a man. and a man must know that all desirable things had their undesirable aspects. this country was wonderful. if, to stay in it, he must come to grips with other men--men as strong and as cruel as devil chad--and with nature too, ramsay felt himself willing to do that. as soon as the two were fifty yards from the ledou home he purposely dropped behind pierre and leaned against a huge hemlock until the little man was out of sight. pierre had said nothing and ramsay had not asked, but the latter knew devil chad had told the frenchman that, if he valued his job in the tannery, he must no longer shelter ramsay. the boy had no wish to further embarrass his host or to jeopardize his job by being seen with him. therefore he leaned against the tree until pierre had had time to reach and enter the tannery. slowly ramsay left his tree and walked down the same path that pierre had followed. badly as he needed a job, it was useless to try to get one in the tannery. he slowed his pace even more as he walked past the building. he had been beaten by devil chad, and he might be beaten a second time should they fight again; but he was not afraid to try. his body had been hurt, but not his courage. almost insolently ramsay stopped where he could be seen from the tannery's open door, and waited there. he was aware of curious, half-embarrassed glances from men hurrying into the place, and then they avoided looking at him. finally a man stopped. he spoke to a man who halted beside him. "all right, jules. get in an' start to work." he was a straw boss or foreman, ramsay decided, and his voice betrayed his new england forebears. an older man, with hair completely gray, like all the rest he was wrinkled and weathered. physically he was lean and tough, but he did not seem belligerent or even unkind. when the last worker had entered the tannery, he turned to ramsay. "you needn't be afraid, son. mr. chadbourne went to milwaukee last night." "i'm not afraid. i was just wondering if he wouldn't come out for a second start." "look, son," the other's air was that of an older and wiser person trying to reason with an impetuous boy, "you haven't got a chance. the best thing you can do is get out of town before mr. chadbourne comes back." "maybe i like this town." "you can only cause trouble by staying here." "i've been in trouble before, too." the older man shrugged, as though he had discharged his full responsibility in warning ramsay, and said, "it's your funeral, my boy. stay away from the tannery." "you needn't worry." ramsay strolled on down the dusty street, and in spite of himself he was a little relieved. if devil chad had gone to milwaukee, probably to arrange for another shipload of hides, it was unlikely that he would be back before night at the earliest. ramsay would not have to fight again today; presumably he was free to do as he pleased without any fear of interruption. he thrust his hands into empty pockets and, to cheer himself up, started to whistle. a fat indian, dressed in ragged trousers, which some white man had thrown out, and an equally-tattered black coat which he could not button across his immense, naked stomach, grinned at him. ramsay grinned back and winked. his friends in new york had been awe-stricken at the very thought of venturing into the wild midwest where, they thought, scalping parties occurred every few hours and no white man was safe from the savages. ramsay had enjoyed himself by elaborating on the part he would play when such a war party came along. but he had discovered for himself, before he left chicago, that the indians in this section of wisconsin were harmless. when they could they sold bead work and basketry to the settlers and they were not above stealing. but they were not warlike. ramsay strode past another building, a big one with two separate floors and an attic. its chimney belched smoke, and from within came the whine of saws and other machinery. in front of the building were stacked a great number of barrels, made of white pine and with hoops formed from the black ash tree. ramsay hesitated a moment and entered. three points was obviously a raw frontier town, but definitely it was not as raw as ramsay had expected it to be. obviously there was at least one industrial plant in addition to the tannery. it seemed to be a cooper's shop, engaged in the production of barrels, and it might hold a job for him. he stopped just inside the door, trying to adjust his ears to the scream of a big circular saw that was powered by a steam engine. beyond were lathes and various other machines, and a great many wooden pails were piled against the far wall. this factory, then, made both barrels and pails. presently a middle-aged man, with the neatest clothing ramsay had yet seen in three points, came out of an office and walked toward him. he shouted to make himself heard above the screaming saw, "yes?" "are you the manager here?" ramsay shouted back. "yes." "need any men?" "what?" ramsay grinned faintly. the factory, if not bedlam, was close to it. it was incredible that anyone at all could carry on an intelligent, or even an intelligible, conversation inside it. ramsay shouted, "let's go outside!" the other followed him out, and far enough from the door so they could hear each other. ramsay turned to his companion, "my name's ramsay cartou and i'm looking for a job. do you have any to offer?" the manager looked soberly at ramsay's battered face, then with the toe of his shoe he began tracing a circle in the dirt. he hesitated. then, "i'm afraid not." ramsay felt a stirring anger. definitely there was more work in three points than there were men to do it. the town had need of strong workers. for a moment he looked steadily at the manager, who looked away. then he swallowed and tried a new tack, "what do you do with all the barrels?" "most of them go to fishermen who use them to ship their catches to chicago. the pails are shipped by boat to wherever there is a market for them." "and you can't give me a job?" "that's right." "why?" ramsay challenged. "we--we have a full crew." "i see. now will you answer one question?" "certainly." "does 'mister' chadbourne own this place too?" "he has a financial interest ..." the other stopped short. "see here, young man! i have told you that i cannot offer you a job and that should be sufficient!" "i just wanted to know why," ramsay said. he turned and walked away from the cooper's shop. his chin was high, and anger seethed within him. devil chad, apparently, owned most of three points and a lot of other things between that and milwaukee. if there was an opportunity to earn a dollar, honest or dishonest, devil chad was seizing that opportunity. obviously the manager of the cooper's shop had heard of his fight with ramsay--in a small community like this everyone would have heard of it--and was afraid to give him a job. ramsay resumed his tuneless whistling. plainly he was going to get nowhere in three points. but definitely he had no intention of running away with his tail between his legs, like a whipped puppy. he liked this lakeshore country and he intended to stay in it. if he had to fight to do that, then he would fight. between the rugged trunks of tall hemlock trees he caught a glimpse of the lake, sparkling blue in the sunshine and gently ruffled by a soft south wind. he turned his steps toward it, and now he walked eagerly. the lake was magic, a world in itself which never had been tamed and never would be tamed. he shivered ecstatically. this was what he had come west to find. devil chad and his tannery, the town of three points, and even milwaukee paled into nothingness when compared to the lake. he broke from the last trees and saw lake michigan clearly. a heavy wooden pier extended out onto it, and a sailing vessel was tied up at one side. ramsay read her name. she was the _brilliant_, from ludington, michigan, and a line of men were toiling up a gangplank with heavy bags which they were stacking on the pier. on the pier's other side a steamer, a side-wheeler like the _holter_, was loading leather from devil chad's tannery. she was the _jackson_, a freighter that carried assorted cargoes between three points, milwaukee and chicago. ramsay strolled out on the pier and brightened when the cold lake air struck his face. it was impossible to be on the lake, or near it, and feel stolid or dull. it provided its own freshness, and ramsay thought it also furnished a constant inspiration. he watched the sweating men continue to bring loaded bags up from the sailing vessel and approached near enough to ask a burly deck hand, "what's this cargo?" the man looked surlily at him. "what's it look like?" "diamonds." ramsay grinned. "well, it ain't. it's salt." "what the blazes will anyone do with so much salt?" "eat it," the deck hand grunted. "people hereabouts like salt." then he, too, grinned. "naw, it's for fishermen. they got to have somethin' to salt their catches in." "oh. i see." ramsay added this bit of information to the lore he had already gathered. obviously fishing consisted of more than just catching fish. actually taking the fish, of course, was the most exciting and romantic part. but the fishermen could not ply their trade at all without women like madame ledou who made their nets, a shop like the three points' cooper's shop which provided the barrels into which the fish were packed, or vessels like the _brilliant_ which brought salt that kept the fish from spoiling. ramsay stayed on the pier until the _brilliant_ was unloaded, and licked his lips while he watched her crew eating thick sandwiches. they took a whole loaf of bread, sliced it lengthwise, packed the center with meat, cheese, fish and anything else they could lay their hands on, and, according to their taste, washed it down with cold lake water or beakers of whisky. ramsay looked away. madame ledou had provided him with a substantial breakfast, but this was an invigorating country wherein one soon became hungry again. ramsay patted his empty stomach. probably madame ledou would give him something to eat should he go back there, but he had already posed enough problems for the ledous. besides, he did not like the idea of asking for food. he left the pier to walk past the lake house, three points' only hotel. savory odors of cooking food wafted to his nostrils and made him drool. he walked past the lake house, then turned to walk back. he trotted up the steps and sat down at a table spread with a white cloth. a hard-eyed woman, wearing a brown dress over which she had tied a neat white apron, came up to him. ramsay leaned back. he had decided to make his play, and he might as well play it to the end. "what does the menu offer?" he asked almost haughtily. "whitefish at fifteen cents, venison at fifteen cents, a boiled dinner at ten cents." "what? no steak?" "the steak dinner," the woman said, "costs thirty cents. with it you get potatoes, coffee, salad and apple pie." "bring it to me," ramsay said. "and please be prompt. my time is valuable." "as soon as possible," the woman said. ramsay relaxed in his chair. a half-hour later the waitress brought him a broiled sirloin, so big that it overflowed the platter on which it rested. there were crisp fried potatoes, coffee--a rare beverage in this country--cream, a salad and a huge wedge of apple pie. ramsay ate hungrily, then the waitress approached him. "will you pay now?" "it is a lot," said ramsay, who could not have swallowed another crust, "to pay for such a puny meal." "i told you the price before you ordered." "it doesn't matter," ramsay waved a languid hand. "especially since i have no money. what do we do now?" ramsay stood in the kitchen of the lake house, and by the light of an oil lamp piled the last of what had been a mountain of dishes, into warm water. there must, he thought, have been thousands of them, but there were only a few more and he dropped one of those. instantly the woman who had served him popped into the kitchen. "must you be so clumsy?" "it is the only dish i have broken out of all i have washed," ramsay said. "don't you think i have paid off my dinner by this time?" "you knew the price before you ordered." "the way you've had me working since, i earned the whole cow. haven't i repaid you, with perhaps a bonus of a sandwich for supper?" "sit down, kid," the woman said gruffly. she brought him a sandwich, huge slices of fluffy homemade bread between which thick slices of beef nestled, and a bowl of milk. ramsay ate hungrily, and after he had finished his hostess talked to him. "you're the youngster devil chad beat up, aren't you?" "i tripped," ramsay said grimly. "devil chad trips 'em all. you're crazy if you think you can get away with anything. best thing you can do is leave." ramsay said, "i guess i'm just naturally crazy." the woman shrugged. "i'm tellin' you for your own good, kid. you'll get nowhere in three points as long as chad don't like you. why not be a smart little boy and beat it back to wherever you came from?" ramsay said, "that isn't a good idea." "you're a stubborn kid, ain't you?" "mule-headed," ramsay agreed. "even worse than a mule." "well, if you won't take good advice, there's not much i can do. would you like to sleep here tonight?" "nope. i'll be going now, and thanks for the steak." "well ... good luck, kid." "thanks." ramsay walked out into the darkness and drew his jacket tightly about him. the lake shore was cold by day, much colder by night when there was no sun to warm it. he had brought extra clothing, but all his personal belongings had gone down with the _holter_. he looked dismally at the dark town--three points seemed to go to bed with the setting sun--and wandered forlornly down toward the lake front. both the sailing vessel from ludington and the _jackson_ were gone. a little wind was driving wavelets gently against the shore, and the lap-lap of their rising and falling made pleasant music in the night. ramsay wandered out on the pier, where the stacked bags of salt were covered with tarpaulins. he looked furtively around. nobody else was on or even near the pier, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would come. he curled up close to the bags of salt and drew the flowing end of a tarpaulin over his body. he pillowed his head on a protruding bag and snuggled very near to the stack. the pier was hard, but he had slept on hard beds before and the barrier of salt broke the wind's force. the tarpaulin, of heavy duck, made a warm blanket. in spite of the odds he faced, ramsay felt a wonderful sense of well-being and peace. he went quietly to sleep. when he awakened, soft gray dawn was stealing like a fawn out of the summer sky. three points, not yet awake, slumbered in the dim morning. ramsay crawled out from beneath the tarpaulin and rose to look at the town. nobody gave up any battles; but nobody knocked his head against a stone wall or strove against hopeless odds. even the little black horse had not done that. he might just as well see things as they were. devil chad ruled three points and, with his present resources, ramsay could not fight devil chad. but it was certain that chad could not rule all of milwaukee, too, and milwaukee would need workers. he could go back there, get a job and plan his future after he had it. a sudden inspiration seemed to fall right out of the brightening sky. the van hoovens! pieter van hooven had told him to come back should he fail to find what he expected in three points, and pierre ledou had assured him that devil chad did not walk so freely among the farmers and fishermen. maybe pieter could give him a job, at least something that would offer security until he was able to get himself oriented; and if he could, ramsay wanted to stay in this part of the country. it was better than milwaukee. briskly he left the pier and struck down the sand beach. now that he had decided to take this step, he felt lighter and happier. maybe he would and maybe he would not have liked working in the tannery, even if that had been ruled by some other man than devil chad, but he knew that he would like the van hoovens and their way of life. he moved fast, staying far enough up on the beach so he need not step in wet sand but near enough the water so he could walk on sun-baked sand over which high water had already rolled. that was packed hard, almost to the consistency of concrete. the sun was well up when he came again to the van hooven's pleasant home. resolutely he walked up and knocked on the back door. a second later it opened, and marta van hooven flashed a warm smile of welcome. "oh! come in." pieter, who had already finished his milking and was now seated at the breakfast table, said, "hello." "hello," ramsay said. "i thought i'd stop in and see you on ..." he fumbled. "on my way back to milwaukee." pieter looked seriously at him. "you're not going to work in three points?" "no," ramsay said bluntly. "mr. chadbourne and i did not see eye to eye. in fact, three minutes after we met our fists were flying in each other's eyes." "you fought devil chad?" "i did, and got well-beaten." pieter said quietly, "some day somebody will kill him." "some day somebody might." "eat," pieter invited. he pushed a platter of eggs at the boy and forked a thick slice of home-cured ham onto his plate. then he placed the dish of yellow butter where ramsay could help himself and put a plate of feather-light fresh-baked rolls where he was able to reach it. marta came softly in from the kitchen with a bowl of cold milk. ramsay ate, primly at first, then gave way to his enormous appetite. pieter served him another slice of ham. the boy took two more eggs and another roll, which he spread lavishly with butter. sighing, unable to swallow another crumb, he pushed his plate back. pieter looked gravely at him. "do you have to go to milwaukee?" "no, i just thought i might find a job there." "you can," pieter assured him. "but if a job is what you want, a job is what i can give you. i can't pay you any money, at least until we have sold our fall crops, because we haven't any. but i can give you all you can eat, a good bed to sleep in, and i have some clothes that will fit you." ramsay said deliberately, "devil chad won't like you for that." "around here," and there was no air of braggadocio in pieter's words, "we don't much care what devil chad likes." ramsay looked hard at his host, and then the two young men grinned at each other. "you've got yourself a man," ramsay said. "what do we do first?" * * * * * hidden from the house by a jutting shoulder of land, ramsay stood beside the small lake on pieter van hooven's property and peeled off his clothes. all day long, interrupted in mid-morning by marta, who brought him a substantial lunch, at noon by a huge and delicious dinner and again in mid-afternoon with a lunch, he had toiled in pieter van hooven's sprouting corn. all day long the sun had beaten down and, though the lake shore was cool enough, a man doing hard physical labor could easily work up a sweat. but it was good. ramsay had felt the sun's rays penetrate to and warm the very marrow of his bones. in spite of the hard labor he had been doing, few times in his life had he felt as agile and supple and wholly alive as this. he plunged headlong into the lake and came up gasping. the water was cold, though not nearly as cold as the big lake; and after ramsay's body was adjusted to it, a delicious glow ran through his whole physical being. he dived again, then climbed up on the soft grass to let the lowering sun dry him before he put his clothes on. he dressed slowly, happily, and now all his cares were behind him. this was the place for him, and no longer did he have the slightest doubt that he was going to like everything about it. fresh and vigorous, the day's toil washed away, he walked slowly down to lake michigan and stared across it. supper in half an hour, pieter had said when he had advised ramsay to stop work and have a swim, and no more than half that time had elapsed. the rest could profitably be spent in just looking at this endlessly fascinating water. ramsay stared across the lake. more than ever it seemed a live creature and one of many moods. ramsay had seen it roaring-mad, and now he saw it gentle as a lamb. there was scarcely a ripple anywhere. absorbed in the lake, ramsay was aware of nothing else until a horse snorted very close to him. when he whirled, he knew that he had seen the same horse and rider before. it was the body-watcher, joe mannis, and he was riding the black-and-white horse which he had ridden when he had warned ramsay away from the drowned captain schultz and the deck hand. the huge cowboy hat tilted precariously on his head and the blue jeans, apparently unwashed in a good many months, clung tightly to his legs. thick black hair escaped from beneath the hat, and he looked ramsay up and down. "what are you doin' here?" "what's it to you?" "well, nothin' i expect. nothin' at all. but just don't bother me again when i'm workin' at my trade." "i won't," ramsay promised, "unless i have a couple of pistols, too." "just don't bother me when i'm workin' at my trade," the other repeated, "an' we'll get along fine." "you think so?" ramsay snapped. missing the challenge implied in ramsay's words, joe mannis trotted his horse up the sand beach toward three points. ramsay looked without interest at his retreating back. joe mannis was an unsavory man, he decided, but unlike devil chad, he was a stupid man. only when backed by his pistols would joe be much of a threat. ramsay pushed his drying hair back with his hands and went around to the rear of the van hooven house. that was also a custom, it seemed. formal visitors, if there were any, might enter by the front door; but everyone else went around to the rear. obviously the visitor who had arrived while ramsay bathed and stood on the shore, was not formal. he was a tall, gaunt man with a thin face and a hooked nose. except for a white shirt, the collar of which was adorned by a bright ribbon that could hardly be called a tie, from his stovepipe hat to his shoes he was dressed entirely in black. an outlandish rig, a four-wheeled cart with a fringed top supported on four posts, stood in the yard. its curtains were rolled up, and the cart seemed to contain everything from wash tubs to pins. pieter and the stranger were unhitching a gray horse that stood patiently between the cart's shafts. pieter called the boy over, "ramsay, this is mr. hammersly." mr. hammersly, so-called, turned and thrust forth a huge hand. "tradin' jack," he amended. "tradin' jack hammersly. you need anythin', i got it. fairer prices as you'll find in three points, chicago, or milwaukee. need a box of candy for that girl of yours, ramsay?" "i haven't any girl," ramsay said. "you'll have one," tradin' jack declared. "every young buck like you needs a pert doe. can't get along without 'em, i always say. yup, you'll have one. when you get one, remember tradin' jack." "i will," ramsay promised. while tradin' jack washed up at the stand beside the back door, pieter led the gray horse to the barn, stripped it of its harness and loosed it with the little black horse. the two animals touched friendly noses. pieter returned, and all three went in to the groaning table which marta had ready. it seemed a natural thing here, ramsay observed, to expect all passing wayfarers to share whatever there was to be had. gracefully tradin' jack lifted the tails of his long black coat and sat down. "left milwaukee day before yesterday," he said. "stopped off to see the blounts, down at blounts' landin'...." marta and pieter van hooven gave rapt attention, and even ramsay found himself interested. aside from being a trader, it appeared that tradin' jack hammersly was also a walking newspaper. he knew everything about everybody between three points and milwaukee, and between milwaukee and kenosha. endlessly he related tales of new babies, new weddings and new engagements. tradin' jack knew that wilhelm schmidt's horse had the colic but probably would recover, and that mrs. darmstedt, that would be the wife of pete darmstedt, had shot a black bear right in her own front yard. there was nothing about the people he did not know and not much that he was unwilling to tell. finished, he got down to business. "any eggs for me, marta?" "twenty dozen," she said, "all fresh." "fourteen cents a dozen," tradin' jack said promptly. "yaah," marta, too, was bargaining now, "i can get that in three points." "take it in trade an' i'll allow you fifteen," tradin' jack said. "got to keep my customers sweet." before he went to bed tradin' jack arranged with pieter to have a butchered pig ready for him when he returned from three points the day after tomorrow. two and a half cents a pound he would pay, or two and three-quarters if pieter would take it in trade. he left with the van hoovens a tempting array of calico, ribbons, needles, pins, a new axe and hammer, a box of nails and other things which were always useful and always needed. the next morning ramsay roused himself out of bed at dawn to find tradin' jack already gone. he had sensed the storm that was approaching, pieter said, and, if possible, he wanted to get into three points before it struck. ramsay felt a strange uneasiness and an unrest. going outside, he saw that yesterday's blue skies had given way to ominous masses of gray clouds. his uneasiness mounted. something terrible was being brewed within the giant lake, and shortly it would erupt. a strong wind sent high waves leaping up onto the shore. they fell back, only to be replaced with more waves. ramsay shuddered. if there was terror in this, there was also grandeur. the lake, angered, was a fearful and wonderful spectacle. it was a gargantuan thing which seemed to writhe in an agony which, somehow, was created by itself. a few drops of rain pattered down. the wind blew harder. pieter and ramsay went to the barn to repair tools, and neither spoke as they stared through the barn's open door. the waves were raging now, launching endless attacks on the shore and always rolling back. suddenly ramsay leaped to his feet and stifled a cry. far out in the lake's surging gray masses he thought that he had seen something pure white. but he could not be sure. a moment later he saw it again. a sail! then he was able clearly to identify a little peanut shell of a boat. she was the _spray_, and she was in serious trouble. chapter five _rescue_ a fresh gust of wind sent the waves leaping higher, and for a moment only the furious lake could be seen. ramsay rose, and pieter rose beside him; and both went to the barn door. they stood alert, still not speaking and not even certain of what they had seen. then they saw it again. beyond any possible doubt it was the _spray_, and she was working valiantly to get into shore. ramsay swallowed a lump in his throat. he had first seen the _spray_ as a dancing bit of gaiety on a lake as stormy as this one, and then she had seemed so sure of herself and so capable. now she was like a shot-wounded duck which, no longer able to rise in graceful flight, must lie on the water and flutter desperate wings. for another tense moment ramsay and pieter stood side by side. by inches the _spray_ was fighting her way toward shore, but a glance was sufficient to reveal the tremendous odds against her ever making safety. still, even in this terrible dilemma, there was a spirit about her which the _holter_ never had and never could have. the two men on the _spray_--and did not the crazy dutch fisherman usually carry a crew of four?--seemed to be working calmly and easily. there was, from this distance, no trace of the near-panic that had reigned when the _holter_ went down. ramsay knew a moment's intense gratification. this was part of the dream, part of the picture he had engraved in his heart when he first saw the _spray_ and her skipper. when they challenged the lake, they accepted it in all its aspects. now they were behaving as all fishermen should behave. before they could even begin to follow their trade they must make an unbreakable pact with their fortune on the water, be it good or bad. then the trance was broken. out on the lake, within sight of pieter and ramsay, men were about to die. they must not die if there was any way to help them. as though their eyes were guided by one common impulse, both men looked toward pieter's small boat. it was a clumsy craft, strongly-built of heavy timbers which pieter himself had hand-sawed in his spare time. usually, when pieter wasn't using the boat, it was pulled high enough on the beach so storm-driven battering rams of waves could not touch it, and so it was now. side by side, with no need to speak, pieter and ramsay left the barn and raced toward the boat. wind-driven rain soaked their clothing before they had gone ten feet, but they paid no attention to it. kneeling, one on either side of the fourteen-foot boat, they strove to push it back into the lake. pieter shouted to make himself heard above the roar of the wind and the smashing waves. "wait!" ramsay stopped pushing while pieter took the long oars out of their locks and laid them lengthwise in the boat. the boy nodded approvingly. as things were, it seemed all but impossible to launch the boat. if they launched it and lost an oar in the high seas, they were doomed to disaster, anyhow. "now!" pieter shouted. the boat scraped a deep furrow in the wet sand as, with a concerted effort, they pushed it backwards. not looking at the savage combers, ramsay gave all his attention to the boat. they would have to work with all possible speed to get it into the lake and the oars in place, because the waves were rising to enormous heights now. he felt the boat's square stern touch water. then an irresistible giant, a force that would bear no interference, took hold and shoved the little craft almost as far up on the beach as it had been when they tried to launch it. leaving the boat half-filled with water, the smashing wave washed away from the wet sand. ramsay stood erect to catch his breath. they had given all their strength to backing the boat into the lake, and as they were about to succeed it had been plucked from their hands as easily as a strong man might snatch a flower from the hands of a baby. he glanced out across the water to assure himself that the _spray_ was still floating, then looked desperately at pieter. "nose first!" pieter said. "turn it around!" he shouted to make himself heard, but there was about him an almost maddening calmness as he worked. ramsay restrained his impatience. they must not lose a second's time; but if they were going to do this at all, it must be done exactly right. both on one side of the boat, they raised it to let the water spill out. in spite of his drenched clothing and the cold air that blew in from the lake, ramsay was sweating. pieter's boat had been built by a farmer, not a fisherman. it was all right on a calm day when pieter wanted to go fishing, but certainly it had never been built to weather storms. so heavy was the craft that the combined strength of two men was needed to tip the water from it. they let the boat drop heavily back on its side, and the oars fell out. still calmly, refusing to become excited, pieter picked them up and placed them in the oar locks. again ramsay understood. both men knew this for a furious storm but both had underestimated its fury. at the best, should they be able to get the boat into the lake, they would have a split second to float her and the oars had to be ready. it was better to take a chance on losing an oar than to have the boat driven back onto the beach. kneeling, ramsay felt his muscles stand out like stretched cords as he gave every ounce of strength to turning the boat around. he was sweating again--and short of breath. only the pressing urgency and the great need for immediate action gave him the strength to continue. then the craft seemed to move a little easier, and ramsay glanced around to see marta working beside them. noting them from the house, and understanding their mission, she had thrown a shawl about her shoulders and raced out to help. with almost maddening slowness the boat turned until its curved nose faced the lake. ramsay on one side and pieter on the other slid it down the wet sand toward the water. the boy bit his lip fiercely to help keep control of himself. nothing must go amiss here, and a wrong or panic-stricken move could mean disaster. because this launching demanded machine-like precision, ramsay fought to control the fire in his brain. carefully he thought out each exact step. get the boat into the lake until it floated. then leap in beside pieter, grab an oar and time his strokes to pieter's. fight their way out to the stricken _spray_ and rescue those aboard her. it seemed a simple matter, but never before in his whole life had ramsay faced anything more complex. it couldn't be done, his mind said, while at the same time something else told him that it could and must be done. he glanced around and curiously, as though the picture were registering somewhere other than in his own eyes, he saw marta van hooven. she was standing at the edge of the lake, her dress and shawl sodden-wet and her rain-soaked blond hair clinging like a seal's fur to her head and shoulders. one hand covered her mouth, as though to stifle a cry that was half-born there, and in her eyes were a great pleading and a great prayer as she watched her husband. but the cry did not find life. she uttered no sound. while she did not want pieter to go, at the same time she knew that he must. only if help came did anyone left alive on the _spray_ have even a faint chance of staying alive. then they were in the lake, and a mighty wave burst like a water-filled bomb about them. it staggered ramsay and sent him reeling, but it did not unnerve him. because he had practised in his own imagination what he must do from here on in, he could do it. he felt cold water creeping about his shoes and then up around his knees. the boat which they had been dragging steadied itself as they reached water in which it could float. through the blinding spray that lashed at them ramsay looked across at pieter. he saw him only indistinctly, but it was as though they read each other's thoughts. at exactly the same moment they flung themselves into opposite sides of the rower's seat and each grabbed an oar. the boy bent his back to the man-killing job of rowing. the boat was sluggish, and again half-filled with water. but it floated, and as soon as they were free of the mighty waves that smashed against the beach it floated a little more easily. ramsay looked back across the steel-gray turmoil to see the van hooven farm, and marta still on the shore. then he returned all his attention to the task at hand. the lake was an insane thing, bent on destruction. they went into the trough of a wave and rose on the next one. ramsay risked a fleeting backward glance to see the _spray_, much nearer the shore and still afloat. suddenly they were in an almost-calm stretch of water. ramsay felt cold fear run up and down his spine. he had met this on the sinking _holter_, and now here it was again. almost fearfully he glanced sidewise at pieter, but he could not speak because the screaming wind would have drowned his words as soon as he uttered them. his eyes grew big. just behind, and again on the right side, an apparition drifted out of the depths. it was a ghost figure, a thing born of nightmares. ramsay gasped. the white sturgeon nosed to the surface, drifted lazily for a moment and disappeared back into the watery depths out of which it had come. ramsay risked a sidewise glance at pieter, whose face remained undisturbed, and he swallowed the lump in his own throat. sailors might fear the white sturgeon, but if pieter did, he was not showing his fear. the boy told himself again that the sturgeon was a fish, nothing more or less than a great fish which, through some freak of nature, was colored white. but it did seem to appear only when death and destruction stalked the lake. he forced such thoughts from his mind. they were again in storm-lashed water, striving to keep their boat straight and headed toward the _spray_. vast waves bore down upon them, plunging the little craft into their cold troughs and then shooting it up as though it were a plaything. from the crest of the waves ramsay could still see the _spray_. he worried. now there seemed to be only one man aboard her. there was a sharp, sickening crack and the sound of splintering wood, that rose above the roar of the wind and the surge of the waves. the boat slewed sideways, and for the first time pieter van hooven's face betrayed emotion. he brought in the stump of oar remaining in his hand and, at the risk of upsetting the little boat, leaned across the seat to snatch ramsay's oar from its lock. with that in his hand, he made a precarious way to the stern. he thrust the oar over the rear seat, trying to use it as a rudder, and the boy strove to overcome the fear he felt. the white sturgeon, the sailors' superstition said, always brought disaster. if you see it, the little deck hand had told ramsay, you can start praying right afterwards. for one terror-filled moment their predictions seemed correct. twice ramsay had seen the white sturgeon; each time he had been in immediate danger of death. then superstition subsided and reason came back to his aid. crouching in the back seat, with only one oar, pieter van hooven was doing his best to fight the angry lake. though he was a farmer, obviously he knew something of seamanship. for a brief moment, just long enough to keep from capsizing, he kept the little boat headed into the onrushing waves. when he turned it, he did so skilfully. working the oar only with the strength in his hard-muscled arms, he headed back towards shore. a mighty wave smashed the stern, throwing cold water over them and across the tiny craft. ramsay moved from side to side, doing all he could to help pieter by shifting his weight to where it was needed most. the boat was three-quarters filled with water. never made for a heavy sea, now it was an almost dead thing. but so strong were the waves and so powerful the wind, that they were driven at almost motor speed back into the beach. ramsay had one glimpse of marta. pieter lost the little control he had. turning sidewise, the boat lifted like a matchstick on the crest of a giant wave and spun dizzily down into the trough. it was lifted again, and just before it turned over ramsay flung himself clear. as he did, he saw pieter go over with him. he dived as deeply as he could, knowing that the boat would come crashing down and knowing also that it would kill him if it struck him on the head. far into the lake he went, swimming under water and groping his way. he surfaced to see the craft to one side and a bobbing object, which he thought was the head of pieter van hooven. a second later a tremendous wave deposited him on the sandy beach. he lay gasping, all the breath knocked out of him, and he wished desperately to get out of the path of the waves that were breaking over him. but it seemed impossible to move. his mind urged him to go, but he lacked the physical strength to obey. then he felt a pair of hands in his armpits, and his body was dragged over the scraping sand. ramsay looked up to see the frightened face of marta van hooven. "can you move?" she pleaded. "gi--give me a minute!" for what seemed an interminable time, but could not have been more than twenty seconds, ramsay lay still. he turned over so that he lay face down, and lifted himself with his arms. his legs and feet were made of jelly. vaguely he was aware of marta and pieter van hooven, one on each side, lifting him to his feet. a second later his strength returned. keening in from the lake, the wind made him stagger backwards. reaching mountainous heights, the breaking waves shattered themselves far up on the beach. ramsay looked across them. about two hundred yards out, the _spray_ was completely crippled. trailing from her broken mast, the sail bled water into the angry lake. down at the bows, the fisherman's boat seemed hung up on a rock or reef. every second wave that washed in broke completely over her and hid her from view. but the single man remaining on board still worked calmly with the broken half of an oar, to free the _spray_ from her prison. ramsay allowed himself another split second. the entire dream was coming true. there were some men who, to the last, could meet the challenge of the lake with grace and spirit. the man on the _spray_, identified even at this distance as hans van doorst, had not given up. the boy whirled on pieter van hooven. "a coil of rope!" he ejaculated. without waiting to see whether or not pieter followed his instructions, he raced for the barn. snatching a bridle from its wooden peg, he went more slowly toward the corral where the little black horse was confined. this had happened once before and it might happen again. a man's strength was as nothing in the raging lake, but a horse was many times as strong as a man. the black horse had brought him safely in when all the others had drowned. the little horse arched his neck and flicked his ears when his young friend approached and patted him. "easy," ramsay said reassuringly. "take it easy, black." the little horse rested his head over the boy's shoulder for a moment, then the latter stepped back to slip the bit into black's mouth, put the bridle over his ears and buckle the throat latch. the horse followed willingly behind him as he pushed the corral's gate aside. he mounted, and black reared and pranced, just to prove that he could. ramsay tried not to look at the lake, but he couldn't help looking. when he did, very lonely in the gray waves, he saw the reefor rock-bound _spray_. the lone fisherman still could be seen, working to free his craft. ramsay leaned forward to pat the little horse on the neck. "we can do it," he murmured. "let's prove it." he took the bridle reins in his hand and trotted black toward the foaming lake. pieter, his eyes grave, tossed him a coil of half-inch rope. ramsay had one glimpse of marta's anguished face. he slipped the coil of rope over his shoulder and did not look back. as they approached the lake, the horse hesitated, to paw the sand with a front hoof. he looked around to eye the rider on his back, and again ramsay leaned forward. "all right," he said. "go on." the horse accepted his words but, more than that, his confidence. guided by the bridle's touch, he walked willingly into the pounding lake. another water bomb exploded about them. they submerged, but black came up swimming strongly. ramsay kept soft fingers on the bridle reins, not wanting to exert any pressure or do anything else that might divert the horse from the job at hand. tossing his head, black sneezed to empty his nose of water that had washed into it. he was timing himself capably and almost perfectly to meet the waves at their place of least resistance, and he rose and fell with them. from the crests ramsay could see the _spray_. from the troughs he could see nothing. a lump rose in his throat. the _spray_ was indeed sadly wounded. only part of her stern showed above water. hans van doorst still worked with a broken oar to free his boat, and as soon as he came near enough ramsay knew that he had been right. the dutch fisherman had been one with the lake when ramsay first saw him, and he was one with it now. unafraid, he fought the lake as gracefully as a swordsman. perched on the broken stump of mast, the sea gull fluttered his wings and clicked his mandibles. ramsay gauged the situation as precisely as he could. if he could throw his rope over the stranded _spray_, the little horse might be able to pull it from its anchor and back to shore. ramsay saw hans van doorst turn to watch him. the fisherman waved a friendly hand. still guiding black lightly, imposing no undue strain on the reins or bit, ramsay steered him across the _spray's_ sunken prow. he let the reins hang slackly on the horse's neck and took the coil of rope from his shoulder. as precisely as he could, he cast and watched the rope snake through the air. a sick feeling arose in the pit of his stomach and he moaned audibly. he had calculated the distance correctly but he had not allowed for the strength of the wind. the rope missed hans van doorst's outstretched hands by two feet and fell into the angry lake. of his own volition, black turned back toward shore. ramsay saw the squawking sea gull bounce a couple of feet into the air and spread his long wings. grasping the reins, for the first time the boy used strength as he strove to turn the horse back. he glanced over his shoulder to see what might be done next, and gasped. hans van doorst had gone to the raised stern of his wrecked boat to give himself a running start, and as ramsay looked, he dived. leaping as far as possible from the _spray_ to avoid striking the rock, he hurled himself into the storm-lashed lake, straight at his would-be rescuers. for a few seconds that seemed like hours, he disappeared into the churning depths, but when he surfaced he was squarely behind ramsay and he used both hands to grasp the horse's tail. black turned back toward shore. he swam more strongly now because he was going with the wind instead of against it, and his double burden did not seem unduly heavy. ramsay saw pieter and marta van hooven, pieter's hand protectingly over his wife's shoulder, as they waited to see what would happen. the last wave burst around them and they were back on shore. instantly ramsay slid from the little horse's back and looked around. a nausea seized him. hans van doorst was no longer in sight. ramsay had tried and failed. he glanced toward the _spray_, as though he expected to see the crazy dutch fisherman still there, and knew only that waves were smashing the boat into kindling wood. then, as though he had literally risen from the lake, hans van doorst picked himself up from the wreckage of a breaking wave and walked ashore. his tame sea gull fluttered out of the sky to alight on its master's shoulder. the dutchman reached up to stroke his pet as he looked at pieter and ramsay. "none but me and captain klaus?" he asked. "none, hans," pieter said. for a moment an infinite sadness, a melancholy born thousands of years ago in the first fisherman who had seen his mates lost, pervaded the dutchman. but it was only for a moment. pieter and ramsay walked to his side and offered their assistance. he declined it. "i'll walk," he said. ramsay felt a great warmth for and a vast sympathy with this man who, while daring all and losing all, could remain so very human. marta hovered solicitously near as they all went up to the house and wore their dripping clothes into her immaculate kitchen. hans van doorst sat down, tried to fold his arms across his chest, and winced. "you're hurt!" marta cried. "it is nothing." the dutch fisherman looked at the three. "it happened out on the lake. we struck something, i do not know what. perhaps the half-submerged hull of a sunken ship. then we were in trouble." marta was stooping beside him, gently unbuttoning his soaking-wet shirt. hans van doorst looked fondly down at her wet and bedraggled hair, and he offered no protest as his upper body was bared. there was a vast, ugly scar on the right side of his chest, and when marta touched him there his ribs moved. the dutchman sat very straight in his chair. though he must have felt pain, he showed none. ramsay and pieter stood aside while marta worked expertly. ripping one of her snow-white sheets into strips, she wound a bandage tightly around hans van doorst's broken ribs. ramsay and pieter looked significantly at each other. such an injury _might_ have resulted when wind or a heavy wave flung the fisherman against something. probably it had happened when hans flung himself forward in an effort to rescue a shipmate. marta finished her bandaging and stepped back. "you rest now." he grinned at her. "fishermen have no time for rest." "do as she says, hans," pieter urged. "come," said marta. she went to a bedroom, opened the door and waited expectantly. hans van doorst spread eloquent hands. "who can argue with a woman?" he asked. "especially a dutch woman?" he rose, went into the room, and closed the door behind him. ten minutes later, marta opened the door a crack and peeked in. she entered, and came out with hans van doorst's clothing. "he sleeps," she announced. "like a man worn out he sleeps." ramsay changed his wet clothes for some dry ones pieter had given him and went out to catch black. from the house's ridge pole, captain klaus, hans van doorst's tame sea gull, squawked at him. ramsay grinned back, walked up to the little horse, rubbed him down, and put him back in the corral. he did the rest of his chores, and when he went into the house for dinner hans van doorst was seated at the table. "i told him!" marta scolded. "i told him to stay in bed and i would bring him his food. but can i talk reason to a dutchman?" "marta," hans van doorst said softly, "there is fishing to be done." eager interest glowed in pieter's eyes. "are you going again, hans?" "i am a fisherman." "you are crazy," marta corrected. "one day you will kill yourself on that lake." again the sadness, the inborn melancholy, sat like a mask on the dutch fisherman. but only for a moment. "marta," he said, "fishermen do not die in bed." chapter six _new venture_ ramsay stirred sleepily and raised a restless hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun. almost the whole night through, until the first waking birds had begun to chatter just outside his window, he had lain restlessly awake. just thinking of hans van doorst, and fishing, had not permitted him to sleep. now, with the sun high, he was at last deep in slumber. ramsay could not know that pieter had arisen shortly after the first birds and had the milking all finished, or that hans van doorst sat in the kitchen, eating the hearty breakfast which marta had prepared for him. he knew only that he seemed to be hearing strange sounds. there were throaty chucklings and gurglings and low-pitched laughter, and all of it was punctuated by raucous squawks. troubled, ramsay rolled over in bed and covered his head with the quilt. even that did not shut out the sounds, and finally he came fully awake. sleepy-eyed, tousle-haired, he sat up in bed. for a moment he could not define the sounds, which seemed to originate very near the roof of the house, and he was puzzled. then he identified the various noises a sea gull makes. ramsay slipped out of bed, pushed the double windows open, and looked into a calm morning. there was a rustle of wings overhead and a flutter of feathers. captain klaus took strong wing to circle the house. he swung back to alight on the window ledge, and tilted his head sidewise while he regarded ramsay with bright, intelligent eyes. "_qu-uark!_" he chattered. ramsay grinned, but when he put out a hand to touch him captain klaus again took flight and sailed down to the now-calm lake. he alighted on the shore, folded his wings across his back, and walked down the beach until he found a storm-killed perch. with the fish in his bill, he flew back to the house's ridge-pole to eat his breakfast while he awaited the reappearance of hans van doorst. a little bit embarrassed, ramsay dressed hurriedly. the working day in this country began with dawn and ended with dark. everything that needed doing--and there was much to be done--had to be crowded into such daylight as there was, and there was never enough. hurrying down the steps leading to the kitchen, he saw hans van doorst at the table. marta greeted him pleasantly, "good morning." "good morning," ramsay replied. "i overslept! i didn't mean to. why didn't somebody call me?" "yaah!" marta laughed. "pieter said not to. you earned your sleep, pieter said. sit down with hans and have some breakfast." hans said, "men who are not hungry are sick. sit down." ramsay sat, and felt a free and easy sense of comradeship, as though he and the dutch fisherman had something in common. they felt alike and thought alike. hans van doorst had thanked ramsay with his eyes for rescuing him, but not once had he spoken of it and not once had he mentioned the wreck of the _spray_. the boy was grateful for that; he knew that he would be embarrassed if his part in yesterday's incident were brought into the limelight. marta busied herself at the big wood-burning stove, and ramsay speculated on the difficulties involved in just getting such a stove into this country. marta laughed. "while i make you the breakfast, you listen to the crazy tales the crazy fisherman tells you." hans turned his twinkling eyes on ramsay. "marta is a good girl," he said. "a good dutch girl. she thinks all men are crazy." "they all are," marta said. "especially you. what you need is a good farm and stay away from that wild lake." "farms and me wouldn't get along, marta." hans laughed. "i told you i'm a fisherman." "yaah? you lost everything with the _spray_. how are you going to go fishing again?" hans spread his two powerful hands. "these are what i had when i started. these are what i have now." "you need money, too. money for nets, money for ..." the door opened and pieter came in for breakfast. hanging his light jacket on a wooden peg in the hallway, he took his seat at the table. "why does hans need so much money?" he asked. "he says he's going fishing again." marta sniffed. "i've been telling him that he should get a farm, and we can put him up until he gets one, and ..." "are you really going fishing?" pieter broke in. "that i am. i'm a fisherman. now look, pieter, you get up at dawn to milk your cows. no? to be sure, you get all the milk you can drink; but if you're lucky, tradin' jack hammersly gives you maybe half of what your butter's worth. all winter long and all summer long you work for those cows. a fisherman, now, he works for four months, just four. . . ." pieter said, "it sounds good!" "pieter!" marta broke in sharply. "you are _not_ going fishing!" pieter wriggled uncomfortably. "well," he said, "i can at least listen to what the man says, can't i?" "one haul of the nets," hans continued, "and maybe one thousand, maybe two thousand pounds of whitefish. never less than five hundred. for that you get six cents a pound in the chicago market. you don't earn that on your farm, and besides, fishing is a lot more fun. a smart dutchman don't have to tend cows." "_uaah!_" pieter breathed. "pieter!" marta said. ramsay listened, dazzled by the prospects of a fisherman's life as compared to any future a farmer might have. determinedly marta brought a huge dish of wheat cakes and sausage over and thumped it firmly down on the table. "eat!" she commanded. the three gave all their attention to the food, and they did not speak while eating. then hans pushed his chair back. "if i am going to fish again, i must start," he announced. "first i will go down and see if there is any salvage." "we'll help you!" pieter exclaimed. "my boat was not badly smashed. a little work and it will be good as new." "pieter!" marta said. "you are not going fishing!" "now i ask you," pieter said plaintively, "is helping a man pick up his own property, his very own property, is that fishing? could anyone even think it was fishing? no. come on." the three left the kitchen and walked down to the lake. calm after the storm that had raged across it, only little waves were washing in. ramsay looked out at the rock, as though half expecting to see the _spray_ still there, and saw nothing. pieter gave a triumphant little exclamation and waded into shallow water to pick up something that bobbed back and forth. it was the carved valkyrie maiden that had been the _spray's_ figurehead. exquisitely and almost perfectly hand-carved, the wooden statue leaned forward, as though she would embrace the whole lake to her bosom. hans van doorst's eyes were soft as he took it from pieter. "my sweetheart!" he murmured. captain klaus winged down from the ridge pole of the house to alight near them. clucking softly to himself, happy because hans was once more with him, he followed the three men down the beach. ramsay found a coil of rope, then another, and farther on was the _spray's_ torn sail. ramsay pointed out onto the lake. "about there is where we saw the white sturgeon," he said. "i know," hans van doorst murmured. "we saw him a half-dozen times." ramsay looked at him, puzzled. then, "the sailors told me he always brings bad luck." "the sailors!" hans scoffed. "they know nothing about anything except maybe how to stuff themselves with good whitefish that the fishermen bring them! the white sturgeon noses his way to the top when a storm comes, so he is bad luck? do not believe it! he is good luck! he comes to the top so that he may show fishermen the way back to shore!" ramsay grinned appreciatively. this, in spite of the fact that the dutch fisherman's idea of the white sturgeon bringing good luck was as superstitious as the sailors' notion that he always brought bad, fitted in. it was what hans should have said. "how big is that sturgeon?" ramsay asked. "the grandfather of all lake fish," hans van doorst asserted solemnly. "have you not noticed that, like all grandfathers, he is white? in truth, i have never seen a bigger fish anywhere." "another coil of rope!" pieter said, pouncing on it. hans, who had grinned happily with each new find, did not even look around. ramsay looked at him questioningly. anything but stolid, the dutch fisherman had been bubbling over at the prospect of going fishing again. now he seemed melancholy, immersed within himself, and his whole attention was given to the lake. ramsay followed his gaze, but saw little. true, a vast number of small aquatic worms had been washed ashore by the pounding waves. there must have been countless millions of them, so many that they formed a living carpet as far up the beach as the waves had washed. the wriggling, writhing mass was now disentangling itself, and the worms that could were crawling back into the lake. a number of sea gulls and a number of land birds were gorging themselves, and new birds arrived by the flock. they scarcely made a dent in the multitude of worms. ramsay looked again at hans van doorst. "never, never!" the fisherman breathed. pieter, too, swung to look curiously at him. "what's the matter, hans?" "i went on the lake when i was a boy of thirteen," hans van doorst said. "that was fourteen years ago, in 1852. i thought i had seen much, but never have i seen this!" "what?" ramsay asked impatiently. "look around you," hans said. "what do you see?" "worms." "not worms! food for whitefish! with these millions washed up, can you not imagine the vast amount remaining in the water? we are all rich men!" "you think so?" pieter queried. "there is no doubt of it! the whitefish go where their food is! there must be countless tons of whitefish here at your very door step, and here is where we shall fish!" "do whitefish eat only worms?" ramsay asked. "no. they feed on other things, too, notably their own spawn or that of other fish. but enough of this idle talk! i must have a net so we can start fishing at once! pieter, i would borrow your horse and cart!" "the cart you may have," pieter said. "the horse belongs to ramsay." "go ahead and take him," ramsay urged. hans tripped like a dancer to the barn, caught the little horse, and backed him between the shafts of pieter's two-wheeled cart. bubbling like a boiling kettle, entirely happy, he started at a fast trot up the sand beach to three points. with a startled squawk, captain klaus hurried to catch up. the tame sea gull settled affectionately on the rim of the cart's seat. as ramsay watched him go, he felt a vast envy of the light-hearted fisherman. if ever he could go away like that, he thought, he would have lived life at its fullest. not until he looked around did he discover that pieter was watching too, and his eyes were wistful. "there is work to be done!" marta called. they flushed and walked towards the barnyard, where marta was tending her poultry. geese, chickens and ducks swarmed around her and pigeons alighted on her shoulders. she kept her eyes on the men. as ramsay and pieter cleaned the cowbarn, both remained strangely silent. both thought of the dutch fisherman. then pieter, who had promised to have a dressed pig ready for tradin' jack hammersly, started honing a razor edge on his butchering tools. ramsay picked up a hoe, preparatory to returning to the corn-patch. "you think he'll get a net?" pieter asked. "i hope so!" moodily, scarcely seeing or knowing what he was doing, ramsay chopped at weeds that had stolen a home in the growing corn. the work suddenly lacked any flavor whatever. millions of worms, whitefish food, washed up on the beach and the bay in front of pieter's swarming with whitefish! that's what the dutch fisherman had said. marta brought his mid-morning lunch, and her eyes were troubled. "do you think hans will get what he wants?" she asked. "i don't know. marta, why don't you want pieter to go fishing?" "you heard what he said. last night he said it. fishermen do not die in bed. those were his words." "just talk. the lake's safe enough." "yaah? is that why joe mannis can make more money than anybody else around here, just watchin' bodies? aah! i worry about my man!" ramsay said gently, "don't worry, marta." marta returned to the house and ramsay continued working. in back of the barn pieter had his butchered pig strung up on a block and tackle, and the two men looked at each other. both were waiting for hans van doorst to return. about a half-hour before noon captain klaus soared back to his accustomed place on the house's ridge pole. a moment later the little black horse appeared on the beach, and hans drove to the barn. ramsay and pieter, meeting him, stifled their astonishment. when hans left them, to all outward appearances he had been a normal person. now blood had dried on his nose and his right eye was puffy and streaked with color. anger seethed within him. "there is no honor any more!" he said bitterly. "and men are not men!" "what happened?" ramsay inquired. "what happened? i went to three points to get us a pound net! carefully did i explain to that frog-mouthed fontan, whose wife knits the best pound nets on lake michigan, what i wanted. i know pound nets cost five hundred dollars, but i was very careful to prove that we have untold riches just waiting to be caught! as soon as we made some catches, i said, we would pay him his money, plus a bonus for his trouble. fontan became abusive." "then what?" pieter said. "he hit me twice. because of these thrice-cursed broken ribs i cannot move as swiftly as i should. then i hit him once, and the last i saw of him he was lying on one of his wife's pound nets. after that came the constable who, as everybody knows, is merely another one of devil chad's playthings, and said he would put me in jail. it was necessary to hit the constable, too." hans van doorst leaned against the side of the barn, glumly lost in his own bitter thoughts. coming from the house to meet hans and sensing the men's moodiness, marta fell silent beside her husband. ramsay unhitched the little black horse, put him back into the corral, and hung the harness on its wooden pegs. after five minutes, pieter van hooven broke the thick silence. "i do not know whether or not it will be any good, perhaps not. but last year a fisherman came here in a very small boat. he was going to three points, he said, to get himself a larger boat and he had to make time. i do not know what happened to him, for he never came back and i have not seen him since. probably joe mannis got him. but before he took his leave he asked me to store for him a box of nets and ..." "a box of nets!" hans van doorst's melancholy left him like a wind-blown puff of feathers. he put an almost passionate arm about pieter's shoulders. "all is lost! all is gone! then this--this miracle worker! he talks of a box of nets! tell me, pieter! tell me it is still there!" "it must be, for it was never taken away," pieter said. "then let us get it! let us get and look at it before i faint with excitement!" pieter and hans disappeared in the barn, and a moment later they reappeared with a long, deep wooden box between them. having lain in the barn for a year, the box and its contents were thick with dust and spiders had woven their own gossamer nets everywhere. hans van doorst patted the dust away. he looked with ecstatic eyes, and he unfolded a few feet of the net. ramsay saw that it was similar to the gill net insofar as it had stones--sinkers--on one side and a place for floats on the other. made of sixteen-thread twine, the net had a three-inch mesh. "a seine," hans van doorst pronounced, "and a well-made seine, though it was not made in two rivers. it was brought here by one of the ohio fishermen, for that is the way they tie their meshes. let us see some more. i would say that it is about eight hundred feet long. that is not ample; we still need good pound nets, but with it we may again go fishing. help me, pieter." pieter and hans dragged the box to a small tree, tied one end of the seine to the tree's trunk, and began to unwind the net toward another little tree. ramsay saw how shrewdly the dutch fisherman had guessed. the trees, within a few feet one way or the other, were just about eight hundred feet apart and hans van doorst tied the other end of the seine to the far tree. he stood still, a small happy grin lighting his face, and looked at their discovery. slowly, with ramsay, marta and pieter trailing him, he started to walk the length of the seine as it lay on the ground. he kept his eyes downward, and as he walked along he talked almost to himself. "a good seine, yes, a good seine, but it has received hard use. here is almost five feet where it scraped among sharp rocks, and the mesh is worn. under a heavy load of fish, it will break. that hole was made by a sunken log or other object, for you can see that it is a clean tear. this one was made by a huge fish, probably a sturgeon, for just see how the mesh is mangled where he lunged time after time against it. now this . . ." slowly, missing no inch of the seine, he traveled the length of it, and as he traveled he marked every hole and weak spot by telling himself about it. reaching the end, he stood nervously tapping a finger against his forehead. "my hands are more accustomed to pulling seines than mending them," he told the three. "still, if we are to make the catch we can make, this seine must be mended. i will try to mend it." "i worked on a net in three points!" ramsay said eagerly. "i stayed for a while with pierre ledou, and because there was nothing else to kill time, i helped madame ledou knit a gill net! this cannot be too different!" "you!" for a moment ramsay thought hans was going to kiss him. "so! everything works our way! yaah? you fix the seine!" his face fell. "no. we must have new twine. now where will i get it?" "i have some," marta spoke up. "good linen twine, easily a match for anything in this seine." "and you would give it?" pieter asked incredulously. marta shrugged. "you're going fishing, anyway, and i'm going with you. men always want all the fun." the smile hans turned on her was rare. "a good dutch girl," he said. "thank you, marta." pieter and hans cut tripods--three poles strung together at the top to form a standard--and at necessary intervals raised the seine to them so that it was completely off the ground. like a huge tennis net, broken only by the tripods, it stretched between the two trees. ramsay stood beside it with a one and one-half inch meshboard--this mesh was three inches--and a ball of the fine linen twine which marta had given him. he worked as fast as he could, while at the same time he did not sacrifice efficiency. more than ever fishing seemed to be an art within itself, and if the seine were not perfectly made, then it was better left alone. a slipshod or hasty knot could cost them a hundred pounds of fish, or even the seine itself. as ramsay went along, he judged for himself which parts needed repairing. any mesh that seemed to be worn must be replaced; a whole school of fish might follow each other through a single hole. for half an hour hans stood watching him. then, satisfied that ramsay knew what he was about, he went off to cut new floats and place them on top of the seine. a dozen times he went down to study the bay, looking carefully and judging for himself the depth at which they would find the largest schools of whitefish. coming back, he adjusted the stone sinkers accordingly. absorbed in his work, ramsay gave no thought to the passage of time until marta called him for supper. as soon as he had finished eating, he returned to the net. darkness deepened and still he worked on. "ach!" marta said. "you'll kill yourself working! can you not come in now?" "just a little while. bring me a lantern." ramsay heard hans van doorst murmur, "a fisherman, that one," and a yellow lantern glowed behind him. it was nothing more than a tallow candle set in a glass case but, ramsay thought, he really didn't need a stronger light. so sensitive had his fingers become to the feel of the net, and so expert was he in knitting new meshes, that, almost, he would have been able to do it with his eyes closed. he worked on while, held alternately by hans and pieter, the lantern moved with him. he forgot the ache in his fingers and the weariness in his body. he knew only that the sooner the net was in good working order, the sooner they could go fishing. the pre-dawn birds were again singing when ramsay finally bumped against something and, so absorbed had he been in his work, it took him a moment to realize that it was the other tree. he held the mesh board in fingers which, strangely and suddenly, seemed to lack all nerve or feeling. he blinked almost stupidly and stepped back. when he spoke, his words sounded almost silly. "well," he said, "there it is." "there indeed it is!" hans chuckled. "and there it will be until, as soon as possible, we get it into the water. come now and sleep, for with the morning's sun i would have you go with me." ramsay stumbled to his bedroom, took his shoes off, and without removing any of his other clothing, fell across the bed. instantly he was submerged in exhausted slumber from which he was awakened by a gentle hand on his shoulder. "come now," a voice said. ramsay sat up with a start, to see hans van doorst looking down at him. again with a guilty feeling, he knew that he had slept far beyond the time when any worker in this country should sleep. hastily he sprang out of bed. "i'll be right with you!" "compose yourself," said hans van doorst, who had awakened him. "there is no need for any mad rush. i thought you might wish to help me." "oh, sure!" ramsay grinned faintly when he discovered that, except for his shoes, he was fully dressed. he put his shoes on and tied them, went outside to wash at the wash stand, and came in to eat the breakfast marta had ready. scarcely noticing what he ate, he gulped it down. "easy," marta cautioned. "the stomach complaint you will be giving yourself!" "i must hurry! hans is waiting for me!" "with men it is always hurry, especially when they go to do what they wish to do anyway. aah! only a man would give up a good farm to go fishing!" "pieter has not given up his farm," ramsay pointed out. "he will," marta prophesied. "he will, and he will go fishing with you and that crazy hans." "oh, marta, don't be so sad about things! it ..." she was sunny again. "go along now. hans is waiting." hans had black hitched to the cart and was waiting outside the door. his wings calmly folded, captain klaus sat on the back of the seat. ramsay climbed up, and hans slapped the reins over the horse's back. they started up the sand beach--there was a corduroy road but the sand was smoother--toward three points. ramsay grinned impishly as they drove through the town, because he felt the questioning glances of the towns people. devil chad controlled all this, and devil chad had made it very clear that ramsay was not wanted in three points. maybe hans wasn't wanted either but, as pierre ledou had pointed out, the fishermen and farmers cared little what anyone else thought. ramsay looked about, hoping to see devil chad, but he was nowhere in sight. a little disappointed, he relaxed beside hans. they drove through the village and up a rutted little road that wound among gloomy hemlocks. ramsay saw a doe with a fawn at her side, staring at them. as they drew near the doe raised her white tail over her back and disappeared. hans grinned at her. "they shoot the mammas with the babies," he said, "just like they do the papas with the horns. there is no more right in that than there is in netting a spawning fish." "you mean because the babies will die?" "yaah. then, after there aren't any more deer, people just do not understand it. some awful disease, they say, carried them off. they do not know that their own lack of sense carried them off. it is the same with fish. those who seine in the spawning season kill maybe two hundred for every one they take. when there are not any more fish, they will invent a terrible disease that carried them off." ramsay felt a little alarm. "do you think there won't be any more?" "the whitefish," hans pronounced, "cannot last in numbers such as you find them in now. that is because so many of them are being caught. for maybe ten thousand years they are filling the lake until now no fish is more numerous. yaah, for many years they were a food staple of the indians. i myself have seen indians spearing them, or shooting them with bows and arrows. tribes came from as far as the mississippi river to fish here. but a net fisherman takes more in one season than a whole tribe of indians used to, and often the fishermen cannot even take care of what they catch. i have seen whitefish, good eating whitefish, stacked like cordwood along the beach and left to rot there. i have seen them fed to pigs. the best fishing along lake erie is already gone, due to such excesses. that is why fishermen from ohio come here." "will fishing end?" ramsay inquired. "that i do not think. considering it from all angles. now a fisherman will catch perhaps a thousand whitefish, and maybe a hundred sturgeon, for every trout. why? because the whitefish and sturgeon eat trout spawn is part of the reason. when the whitefish and sturgeon are gone, the trout will multiply until they are the big catch. if the trout are taken or die out, there will be something else. no. there will always be fishing here, but it will be better when men learn to fish wisely and not to take anything in the spawning season." "when is that?" ramsay inquired. "whitefish and trout both spawn in the fall, from the fifteenth of october until the fifteenth of december. the sturgeon, i think they are a river fish and that they go up the rivers to spawn. if ever the rivers are closed, there will be many fewer sturgeon." the gloomy little road swerved back toward the lake. they broke out of the trees, and ramsay saw the water again. built into it, at this point, was a rambling wooden pier. there was a house and a fishing shanty. tied to a stake in a patch of green grass, a sad-eyed brown cow munched placidly on a five-pound whitefish. tied to the pier, a saucy twenty-six-foot mackinaw boat, much like the _spray_, bobbed up and down. nearer the beach was another boat, evidently a sadly worn one. nets of various kinds were strung on reels close to the lake. the house's door opened, and a ferocious little black dog snarled toward them. showing white teeth, foaming at the mouth, he hurled himself straight at the visitors. hans laughed and swung down from the cart, and as soon as he did the little black dog leaped about him to wag an almost furious welcome. hans grinned and knelt to tickle the dog's ears. "like most frenchmen, you can do nothing unless you do it violently," he soothed. "where is your master?" the house's door opened and a man, whom at first ramsay thought was a boy, flung himself out. barely five feet tall, he was dressed in breeches, leather leggings with colored fringes and a shirt that seemed to sport every color in the rainbow. he threw himself at hans. "_mon ami!_" he screamed. "my friend! it has been so long, so very long since you honored us with a visit! tell me what has kept you away for so very long?" "baptiste," hans said, "meet one of my new partners, ramsay cartou. ramsay, baptiste leclaire." baptiste wrung ramsay's arm as though it were a pump handle and in spite of his small size, he was very strong. he looked frankly at the boy. "you have," he asked, "bought an interest in the _spray_?" "the _spray_ is no more," hans informed him. "she went back to the lake." "oh." for a moment baptiste was very sober. then both men laughed, as though they shared some huge secret which nobody else could ever understand. baptiste exploded. "what is it you need, my friend? my boats, my nets, my pier, my life? name it and it is yours!" "no," hans said. "what we need is barrels. good oaken barrels with pliant black ash hoops. we also need salt. we have a net and we have a boat." "that is all you need?" baptiste seemed disappointed. "that is all." baptiste turned and in rapid-fire french directed orders at three men who were lingering near. at once they began to take barrels built to hold two hundred pounds of fish from a huge pile near the fishing shanty and to stack them on baptiste's boat. ramsay read her name, _bon homme_. baptiste leclaire turned to his visitors. "now that you are here," he said, "share the hospitality of my poor home." "with pleasure," hans agreed. they went into the house to meet baptiste's wife, a sparkling little black-eyed french woman. producing the inevitable jug, baptiste filled three gourds with fiery whisky. hans and baptiste drained theirs with one gulp. ramsay nursed his, both men laughed at him. but the boy could partake of the delicious fish stew which baptiste's wife prepared. a half-hour after ramsay and hans returned to the van hooven farm, a white sail bloomed out in the bay. she was the _bon homme_, loaded halfway up the mast with barrels and salt. hans van doorst rubbed his hands in undisguised glee. "now," he chuckled, "we go fishing!" chapter seven _partners_ ramsay was puzzled. hans van doorst had arisen even before the first faint streaks of dawn cracked the night sky and without waiting for anyone else to get up, or for breakfast, he had gone out to work. he was not fishing, for he had assured ramsay that there would be no fishing until all could take part. furthermore, hans had said, the fishing would need all of them. one man alone could not take enough fish to make it worthwhile. still, hans had gone out before it was properly light enough to see. ramsay had heard captain klaus greet his master from the top of the house. what anyone would be doing out of bed at such an early hour remained a mystery. in the dim morning light, descending the steps to the kitchen, ramsay continued to wonder why hans had gone out when he did. he greeted the van hoovens, who were already washed up for breakfast, and marta went to the back door to call, "hans!" captain klaus' hoarse squawk broke the morning stillness, and a second later there was an answering call from hans. he was down at the beach, doing something there, and presently he came in. ramsay grinned appreciatively at his appearance, for the dutch fisherman's cheeks glowed like the rising sun. his eyes sparkled, and a perpetual chuckle seemed to gurgle in his throat. plainly hans had been doing some invigorating work, but it was work in which he took a vast pleasure. anything onerous could not possibly put such a shine upon anyone at all. hans washed at the basin outside the door. "ah!" he breathed as he sat down to the huge breakfast marta had readied. "this looks good!" "i should think a stale crust would look good to anyone who puts in a half-day's work before anyone else stirs," marta said. "it would!" hans agreed, helping himself to half a dozen eggs and an equal number of bacon slices. "it would, and many a time i have dined on only a crust! but fare such as this! fit for the angels! i'm the luckiest fisherman alive, i think!" "also the most oily-tongued," marta added. nonetheless she was pleased. "i suppose, when we are all wealthy from fishing, you will hire a cook for me?" "not i!" hans said. "never i! hiring anyone but you to do our cooking would be as out of place as hiring joe mannis instead of a preacher to do our praying! no, marta! not elsewhere in wisconsin is there one who equals your skill with cookery!" pieter, who often tried to beguile his wife but seldom succeeded, laughed. marta blushed. while hans devoured what he had already taken, then served himself to three more eggs, ramsay ate almost feverishly. today was the big day, the time all of them had been waiting for, because today they went fishing. ramsay finished and waited with ill-concealed impatience while pieter and hans mopped their plates with crusts of bread. all three went outside. squawking and chuckling, as though at some huge joke, captain klaus winged down from the rooftop to alight on his master's shoulder. he tilted, flapping his wings to balance himself, and caressed hans' cheek with his hard, cold bill, even while he kept up a running fire of sea gull chatter. hans reached up to stroke his pet. ramsay looked down at the beach, and saw two structures which had not been there yesterday. hans must have built them this morning. they were windlasses, made of peeled logs, and about eight hundred feet apart. one was the conventional windlass--a drum mounted on two uprights and with a crank that could be turned by hand. the spindle of the other--all these lake men could work miracles with logs or anything else at their command--was set vertically in a stone and log foundation and it had a long, stout shaft protruding from its center. ramsay looked questioningly at hans. the dutch fisherman shrugged. "it is simple," he explained. "we have but one horse. therefore, we men work the one while the horse turns the other. marta can lead it." ramsay was incredulous. "you mean we'll take so many fish that a horse will be needed to drag them in?" hans' throaty chuckle sounded. "if we do not," he said, "from now on forever you may say that hans van doorst is not a fisherman. say that he is just a little boy who plays at fishing." with a fisherman's skill, hans was coiling a rope. he settled it carefully in the bottom of the boat, so that it wouldn't kink or snarl when paid out, and was alert to avoid stepping on or tangling it in anyway. folded exactly as hans wanted it, with all the floats on one side and all the sinkers on the other, the net was overhauled on the stern of the boat. another coil of rope lay on the net, and hans tied one end of that to the spindle of the horse-powered windlass. then he looked happily at pieter and ramsay. "now," he said, "i need an oarsman." "i'll row!" ramsay offered eagerly. "go ahead." pieter grinned. so expertly that he scarcely ruffled the water and did not even disturb his net or rope, hans launched the boat. he waded in up to his knees, paying out more rope as he did so, and held the boat steady until ramsay waded out beside him and climbed into the rower's seat. ramsay tried to board cautiously, skilfully, as he had seen hans do. obviously a great deal of careful work had gone into folding the net and coiling the rope. everything had to be done exactly right, and one clumsy or ill-timed move could make a hopeless snarl out of all. still, hans seemed confident and sure of himself. probably, ramsay thought, he had done this so many times that doing it was almost second nature. the boy looked expectantly at hans. "straight into the lake," the dutch fisherman directed. "keep a straight right-angle course to the windlass; you can do that by sighting yourself from it. row as swiftly as you wish." with strong, surging strokes of the oars, ramsay sent the ponderous boat out into the quiet lake. he watched hans carefully, trying to note everything he did, and his respect for fishermen grew. the dutchman sat almost carelessly in the stern, to all outward appearances not even interested in what he was doing. but, as they continued out into the lake, the rope continued to slip smoothly over the stern. there was never a tangle or even a kink. it looked easy, but net-weaving had looked easy too before ramsay tried it. beyond any doubt, it took skill and long familiarity with the job to handle six or eight hundred feet of rope in such a fashion and do it perfectly. they came near the end of the rope and ramsay slowed his strokes a little. the laughing dutch fisherman turned to him. "sharp left," he directed. "stay about this far out in the lake and row a bit more slowly. now we set the seine." ramsay followed instructions, watching the beach line to make sure that he stayed the proper distance out, and hans began sliding the seine over the stern. he did it smoothly, gracefully, as he did everything connected with fishing. ramsay nodded approvingly to see how well hans laid his net and how expertly he had guaged the place in which it was to be laid. instead of curling toward the beach, the seine, obviously controlled by a current that swept into the lake, billowed outward. "does the lake have different currents?" ramsay asked interestedly. "that it does. when the wind blows toward shore, of course waves wash up on the shore. but the lake, she moves in a thousand different ways, and the currents that appear on the surface are not always like those that surge beneath the surface. ah, yes! many moods has lake michigan and," hans grinned, "not many of them are placid moods." "how could you tell that a current to hold the seine was right here?" "i felt it when i had hold of your horse's tail." ramsay pondered that information. the current holding the net certainly was not perceptible from the surface. it would not be evident at all, except to one who had a thorough understanding of such things and was able to sense the most minute change in the water that lay about him. of course, the stones, the sinkers, probably helped hold the seine in place too. foot by foot, the seine slipped into the lake and a long line of it stretched at an angle toward the boat. ramsay tried to judge for himself how far the net was going down. he could not because he had had too little experience in fishing, but he was sure the seine rested exactly where hans wanted it to rest. without seeming to move, hans leaned over to pick up the other coil of rope. smoothly he tied it, and the last few feet of seine slid over the boat's stern to disappear in the lake. ramsay waited expectantly for directions. they came. "straight as you can towards the other windlass," hans said. "then we are all ready." again ramsay turned at a right angle toward the other windlass. now he began to understand the setting of a seine. there were the two windlasses, the two six-hundred-foot ropes and the seine running parallel to the beach. now, ramsay supposed, they would beach the boat, tie this rope to the other windlass, and be ready to haul in the seine. if they did not make a good catch, they could lengthen the ropes and put the seine farther out in the lake. also, by adding more sinkers or subtracting some, they could raise or lower the seine. ramsay tried to make some observations about the water in which they were fishing. it was comparatively shallow, though at all places except very near the shore it would float a fair-sized ship. also, it seemed to have a rather smooth bottom. in addition, though the bay could at times be angry, it was more sheltered than some places. storms here probably would at no time reach the heights of fury that they reached on the open lake. because he was anxious to learn as much as he could about fishing, ramsay asked some questions. "are whitefish usually found in shallow water?" "almost always," hans said. "though they need not necessarily always be found close to shore. i myself know of reefs where we will be sure of wonderful catches as soon as we get some pound nets, and some of them are a mile or more out." "then the lake bottom varies?" "oh, yes! to get an idea of what the bottom of the lake is like, take a look at the land about you. here you find a hill, or a succession of rolling hills. here is a stretch of flat prairie. there are deep gulches and bluffs. you will find clay, sand, loam, small stones, boulders. as i've already said, the lake's bottom is almost exactly like the land about it." "what's the deepest part?" "baptiste leclaire and i once sounded a place off the wisconsin peninsula. we touched bottom with a thousand feet of line, and i think that may be the deepest place in lake michigan, though i cannot be sure. i have not sounded every place in the lake and, for that matter, neither has anyone else." "are there deep-water fish?" "the trout ordinarily seeks deep water, though they may be found in shallows in the spring. however, there are not enough trout to be worth a fisherman's while. some day this may change." "is there any way to set a net so a fisherman may be sure of a good catch?" "not once in ten times, if he is just beginning, can a fisherman be certain of a good catch, or of any catch. the tenth time is the exception. i am sure, for instance, that there must be a vast number of whitefish in this bay, because the food for them is here. otherwise, the fisherman must be taught by experience, or by another fisherman, where to set his nets so that he will make a good catch. watch it now. we are about to land." the nose of the little boat bumped gently against the sand beach, and hans stepped out into knee-deep water. paying no attention to his soaking-wet shoes and trousers, he uncoiled the rope as he walked up the beach and tied it through a hole which he had drilled in the spindle of the hand windlass. more gingerly, not afraid of getting wet but not anxious to do so, ramsay stepped to the nose of the boat and leaped onto the dry beach. pieter and marta joined them, and all turned puzzled glances on hans; they knew almost nothing about the technique of fishing and must look to him. ramsay watched the fisherman test the taut rope with his hand, and a little smile of satisfaction flitted across his face. excited himself, hans looked at the even more excited people about him. "relax." he grinned. "the seine is not going anywhere, and we will soon see what we have caught. ramsay, do you want to harness the horse and bring him down?" "sure." ramsay trotted to the barn, anxious to be doing anything that would help relieve the seething tension within him. everything he had done this morning--indeed, everything he had done since meeting hans van doorst--had been fascination itself. now, if hans' predictions were right, and the dutch fisherman seemed so absolutely sure of himself, they would soon be in the fishing business. ramsay laid a friendly hand on black's mane, and the little horse followed willingly into the barn. he stood quietly to be harnessed. ramsay fastened a singletree to the harness tugs and hooked a strong chain onto it. partaking of the humans' excitement, captain klaus winged low over the beach, crying and squawking as he wheeled and dipped in graceful circles. ramsay grinned at him. of all the pets a fisherman might have, surely a sea gull was the most fitting. ramsay led black toward the far windlass, the one the horse was to work, because hans, pieter and marta had gathered about it. captain klaus came out of the sky to alight on top of the windlass, and the horse scraped a restless front hoof across the sand beach. ramsay looked inquiringly at hans, who frowned and stepped back, then turned to the boy. "we need a longer chain," he decided. "will you get one?" "sure." ramsay ran back to the barn and returned with the longest chain pieter had. hans hooked it to the windlass shaft, laid it out flat, and then connected it to the chain ramsay had already brought. the boy nodded understandingly. the rope dipped into the lake, then rose to the windlass spindle. the chain had to be long enough so that the horse, in walking around and around, could step over the rope. hans turned to marta. "when i give the word," he said, "lead the horse in a circle around the windlass. lead him slowly; we do not want the seine to come in too fast. try to maintain a steady pace, and we will do our best to suit ours to yours. both ends of the seine must come in evenly." "yaah!" in spite of her dire forebodings about fishermen, marta's eyes were shining like stars. "yaah! i can do it." "good," hans said gently. "i know you can. ramsay, you and pieter come with me." the three men took their places by the other windlass, and ramsay tried to suppress a growing excitement. he waited tensely, both hands on the crank; pieter was on the other side of the windlass. looking once more at the taut rope stretching into the lake, hans van doorst raised his voice, "all right, marta!" grasping the cheek strap of the little horse's bridle, marta began to lead him slowly around and around. tense, sweating a little, ramsay took a fierce grip on the windlass crank and looked at hans. the dutch fisherman, his eyes on marta, timed the turning of the windlass. "now!" he said. ramsay strained with every muscle and nerve, and great beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. hans had built well and with a full appreciation of leverage and tension; nevertheless, the windlass was hard to turn. the seine itself would be responsible for part of that. dry, one man could carry it. but when lake water penetrated every one of its hundreds of meshes, the seine would surely weigh much more. however, no net of any description could within itself weigh this much. hans must have guessed correctly. there were endless fish in the bay and the incoming seine must be loaded with them. "faster!" hans exclaimed. ramsay gritted his teeth and turned the windlass faster. he shot a fleeting glance at marta, who was still leading the horse slowly. even so, black was going too fast. the combined strength of three men was no match for the strength of a horse. hans' bellow split the air, "marta, stop!" marta halted the little horse and ramsay leaned his weight against the windlass' crank so that they would not lose what they had already gained. he gulped in great, refreshing breaths. hans asked, "can you hold it?" ramsay and pieter nodded, and hans walked down to talk with marta. she must lead the horse even more slowly, for the men could not keep up with him. if both ends of the seine were not pulled in evenly, if the net was tilted or bent, the catch could well be lost. ramsay straightened as hans came back to take hold of the crank. "all right," he said. ramsay turned, setting his shoulder to the windlass while his breath came in excited little gasps. the rope, tight as a stretched wire, sloped into the lake. though it was stoutly built of heavy logs, the windlass trembled on its frame. the crank became harder to turn and the wet rope wrapped like a clinging hair about the spindle. ramsay gasped. out in the lake, just beyond the shallow water at the edge of the beach, the seine's floats showed. the seine itself was bent like a bow, its two ends straining toward the windlasses while the center arched into the lake. the gleam of silver in the seine seemed to cast a soft radiance over the lake and the beach, and even a powerful current could not have bowed the seine in such a fashion. ramsay set his shoulder to the windlass and helped give it two more turns. down at the other windlass, marta was watching them. she, too, had learned. the men could not keep up with the horse, so she was adjusting the horse's speed to them. farther up the seine came, so that some of the sinkers were dragging in the shallows. the floats were bowed over, forming a sort of half-sack, and the center of the seine still arched back into deep water. ramsay saw a tight little grin appear on hans van doorst's face. pieter was looking incredulously at the loaded net. "a little more!" hans pleaded. "just a little more! get the center up!" they took two more turns, brought the center of the seine into shallow water, and hans latched the windlass. with a wild whoop, the dutch fisherman raced down to the lake and stooped to grasp a hundred-and-fifty-pound sturgeon caught in the net. hans dragged it up onto the beach, left it there, and returned to get a bigger one. "nets unload!" he sang out. ramsay ran forward, heedless of water that surged about his knees. he stumbled, fell headlong, and arose sputtering. but, now that he was soaking-wet anyway, it no longer made any difference. he grabbed a six-pound whitefish in each hand and threw the pair far up the beach. he grinned as he watched pieter drag another big sturgeon out of the seine, and grabbed two more whitefish. "yaah! for once men work with a real will!" ramsay turned around to see marta, her spray-wet hair plastered close to her head. her feet were spread almost defiantly apart, and the smile on her lips and the laugh in her eyes were proof of the fact that she was now whole-heartedly with them. fishermen risked a lot. but who didn't risk when they played for big stakes? lake michigan was there, until now an almost untapped source of wealth; and if nobody dared to get this hoard, it would remain forever in the lake. somebody had to try. in that moment, as never before, ramsay knew that they were in the fishing business. only vaguely was he aware of pieter and hans working beside him, and he did not know how long it took to get all the fish out of the seine. he knew only that suddenly the net sagged emptily. he took two small whitefish out of it, threw them back into the lake, and watched them swim away; then he looked at hans van doorst. "let us bring the net up to dry," hans said. they reeled in the windlasses and stretched the soaking seine between them. ramsay turned for a look at the beach, and he could not see it because the sand was covered with fish. hans had been right. the bay in front of the van hooven home was a very paradise for fish. countless sturgeon and whitefish lay on the beach. ramsay heard hans say, "now we go to work." hans hitched the little horse, brought the cart down to the beach, and began throwing whitefish into it. the bigger, heavier sturgeon, of course, hans had to lift into the wagon box. when they had a load, he drove to the stacked barrels left by baptiste leclaire. ramsay watched interestedly. a little trickle of water wound into the lake at this point, and hans had dammed it in such a fashion that a miniature cataract fell over the stones and mud which he had placed in the water course. beside this were a big, flat wooden dish, evidently also made by hans, and several sacks of salt. the dutchman produced three razor-sharp fish knives, more salvage from the _spray_, and turned to pieter. "do you want to bring the rest of the fish up?" "yaah. i'll do that." hans caught up a six-pound whitefish and, seeming to use his knife very little, he cut its head off. leaving the fish unscaled, he sliced it down the backbone to the end of the tail and spilled the viscera out. he washed his fish in the dam's tiny spillway and, filling the wooden dish with salt, he rolled the split whitefish in dry salt. then he placed it carefully in a two-hundred-pound barrel. ramsay caught up a fish and a knife and tried to imitate exactly hans' procedure. but, though he thought he was doing everything precisely as the dutchman had done it, he was much slower. hans had two more fish ready and in the barrel before ramsay was finished with one. grimly ramsay worked on. if this was a part of fishing, it was a part he must and would learn. he picked up another fish and, as he worked, he gained skill. as soon as one barrel was filled, hans threw a couple of hands full of salt on top, fitted a head to it and clamped it down with a black ash hoop. again ramsay nodded understandingly. he had supposed that a brine solution in which to pack the fish must be prepared, but evidently none was necessary. enough water remained on the fish to form their own brine. packed in such a fashion, they would keep for many months. pieter brought another load of fish and another, and then set to work with a fish knife to help clean the catch and pack it. the big sturgeon, of course, had to be cut into suitable strips and salted before they were packed. some of them were filled with roe--caviar--and pieter carted pails full of that to feed marta's poultry. the remainder of the waste was loaded into the cart and hauled far away from the scene of the packing. then hans scrubbed everything carefully. fishermen who packed food for human consumption must be very clean. the sun was down and the moon up before they finished, but when they were done they had packed seven barrels--fourteen hundred pounds--of whitefish and three barrels of sturgeon. it was a rich haul. though they had worked for almost seventeen hours, each of them had earned more money than the average worker in devil chad's tannery received in a full month. ramsay sighed as he cleaned and honed his fish knife, and hans said, "the moon is bright and right for working, and we need a pier." "a pier?" "yaah. else how will a boat put in to pick our catch up? i work for an hour or so." ramsay, thinking of his comfortable bed, stumbled down to the lake to help hans put in an hour or two on the pier. chapter eight _action_ restlessly ramsay picked up a big whitefish and cleaned it. salting it, he threw the fish into a barrel and picked up another. a freckle-faced urchin about ten years old stood near, watching him. the youngster was johnny o'toole, son of shamus o'toole. in the summer shamus did odd jobs. in winter, when boats could not run, he drove one of the sleds that carried leather from three points to milwaukee and cattle hides from milwaukee to three points. "you goin' to fix a sturgeon?" johnny demanded. "sure," ramsay said absently. "pretty soon." ramsay's eyes kept straying out on the lake, past the solid wooden pier which hans, pieter and ramsay, had erected. the past days, it seemed, had been nothing but work. up with the dawn and out to make another catch of fish. pack the catch, and spend any time that remained working on the pier. weeds were sprouting as high as the corn, oats were heading untended and unheeded on their stalks, and the farm was getting only the skimpiest attention. all this because they had decided to gamble on fishing. when the _jackson_, summoned by hans, had nosed into their pier, she had taken on board a hundred and twenty barrels--twenty-four thousand pounds of whitefish--and forty thousand pounds of sturgeon. the whitefish, hans had assured them, would bring not less than five cents a pound in the chicago market and the sturgeon were worth three cents a pound. when they had their money they would be able to buy a pound net, a pound boat, more salt and barrels, and be ready for fishing on a really big scale. ramsay's eyes kept darting toward the lake. the _jackson's_ skipper had said that, depending on how much cargo he had to take on in chicago and the number of stops between chicago and three points, the ship would be back tuesday or wednesday. this was tuesday, and ramsay could not control his impatience. "fix a sturgeon," johnny pleaded. "fix a sturgeon now." "i ... all right, johnny." ramsay began to dismember a hundred-pound sturgeon, and johnny o'toole's eyes danced. he stood anxiously near, trying to remember his manners, but his impatience triumphed. "gimme his nose, will ya? can i have his nose?" "sure, johnny." ramsay, who had learned a lot about dressing fish since his first halting attempts, sliced the sturgeon's nose off with one clean stroke of his knife. the nose was round as a ball, and as rubbery, and every one of the numberless freckles on johnny o'toole's face danced with delight when ramsay tossed it to him. immediately, johnny began bouncing the sturgeon's nose up and down on the hard-packed ground. he had only to drop it, and the nose bounded higher than his head. this was the rubber ball, and sometimes the only plaything, of children who lived among the commercial fishermen of lake michigan. johnny began throwing the nose against a tree, catching it in his hand as it rebounded to him. ramsay--hans and pieter were down at the lake, strengthening the pier--picked up another sturgeon and filled a barrel. he sprinkled the usual two handfuls of salt on top of the filled barrel, fitted a head to it, and bound it tightly with a black ash hoop. ramsay looked at the two sturgeon remaining from this morning's catch, and decided that they would just about fill a barrel. he rolled one of their dwindling supply over. "can i have their noses, too?" johnny begged. "can i? huh?" "sure, johnny." "gee! thanks!" johnny o'toole began to play with his four sturgeon noses, sometimes bouncing all of them at once and sometimes juggling them. ramsay continued to steal glances at the lake. if everything worked out the way hans said it would, they would have ... ramsay dared not think of it, but, even after they paid the skipper of the _jackson_ for hauling their catch to chicago, there would be a great deal. "i'd better be goin'," johnny o'toole said. "my pa, he whales me if i stay out after dark. thanks for the sturgeon noses. i can trade two of 'em to my brother for a knife he's got." "you're welcome, johnny. come back when we have some more sturgeon." "i'll do that!" bouncing one of the sturgeon noses ahead of him, johnny o'toole started up the beach toward three points. ramsay watched him go, then cleaned the last of the sturgeon, put them in a barrel and sealed it. as the evening shadows lengthened, he looked again at the bay. the _jackson_ still had not put in, and he gave up. the ship would not be here until tomorrow. he left the barrels where they were and went toward the house. tradin' jack hammersly's four-wheeled cart was again in the yard, its curtains rolled up to reveal the trader's tempting array of wares. his gray horse was in the corral with the little black, and tradin' jack hammersly's stovepipe hat was decorously placed on the bench outside the door. ramsay grinned faintly as he washed up. the trader was an eccentric character, and ramsay suspected that his eccentricities were planned; they made good advertising. but he was likeable, and now they would get more news. ramsay went into the house. "hi, ramsay," tradin' jack greeted him. "how about a pretty ribbon for that girl of yours?" "i still haven't any girl." "slow," tradin' jack asserted. "so much time you have spent around here an' still no girl. too slow." "i'll get one," ramsay promised, "but i've been too busy fishing to look the field over." tradin' jack nodded sadly. "yes. i heard it. that's what i did, heard it. so you go fishin'. so what happens? can a trader trade fish? no. he can't. fish you sell in chicago. fishermen are the ruination of traders." "not everybody will go fishing," pieter pointed out. "enough will stay at farming to keep you supplied. besides, with all the money the fishermen are going to earn, they can buy a lot more of your goods." "that's so," tradin' jack agreed. "that's so, too, but a man's got to take everything into account. if he wants to stay in business, he has to. got any eggs for me, marta?" "yaah! crate after crate." "i'll take 'em. take 'em all. fourteen cents a dozen. fourteen and a half if you'll take it in trade." his mind on the _jackson_, which even now should be churning its way toward them, ramsay only half-listened as tradin' jack rattled on about the various events which, combined, went to make up life on the west shore of lake michigan. remembering little of what he had heard, ramsay went upstairs to bed. snuggling down into the soft, feather-filled mattress, he tried to stay awake and could not. the work was always too hard and the days too long to forego even one minute's slumber. * * * * * the sun was only half-awake when ramsay got up, breakfasted and went back to the place where they cleaned their fish. everything that could be was packed and the grounds were clean, but yesterday they had ripped a ragged gash in the seine and now that needed repair. ramsay, assisted by hans, set to work with a ball of linen twine. he lost himself in what he was doing. the important thing, if they wanted fish, was to get the net into the water and use it. even one half-hour must not be wasted. ramsay was jerked out of his absorption in the net by two shrill blasts. he sat up, and sprang to his feet as the blasts were repeated. looking in the direction of the pier, he saw the _jackson_, her wheel churning up a path of foam, nosing toward the mooring place. pieter appeared, and marta. all four raced to the pier, and they reached it before the approaching steamer did. ramsay and hans secured mooring lines which a deck hand threw to them, and captain williamson of the _jackson_ came down a short ladder. he was a bustling little man who wore a blue-and-gold uniform which, ramsay thought, would have graced an admiral in any navy. but he was efficient and he knew the lake. for eleven years he had been running the _jackson_ between three points and chicago without getting her into or even near trouble. captain williamson took a white sheet and a wallet from an inner pocket, and he read from the sheet, "twenty-four thousand pounds of whitefish you gave me. it brought five cents a pound, or twelve hundred dollars, less a cent a pound for the hauling. here you are, nine hundred and twenty dollars." from the wallet he extracted a sheaf of bills and handed them to hans. ramsay looked questioningly at him. "the sturgeon?" he asked. "ha!" captain williamson snorted. "there's enough sturgeon layin' on the chicago pier to run the whole city for the next six weeks. nobody's buying it but, since i hauled, i have to be paid. see you later, gentlemen." captain williamson scrambled back up his ladder, which was hauled in after him. snorting like an overworked draft horse, the _jackson_ backed away from her mooring, made a wide circle into the lake, and puffed on toward three points. ramsay looked incredulously at the money in hans' fist, slow to realize that, even if they split it among the four of them, it would be more than half a year's wages for each and they had earned it in less than two weeks. then he looked at marta's face and burst out laughing. from the first, marta had been with them only half-heartedly and only because pieter could not be swayed from fishing. now, seeing enough money to buy a farm, and with tangible evidence that fishing paid well, she had swung completely to their side. pieter and hans joined in ramsay's laughter while marta looked puzzled. she was, as hans had declared, a good dutch girl. definitely she was not avaricious, but no good dutch girl could fail to be impressed by the sight of so much money. hans clasped the bills firmly and looked at his partners. "what do you say?" he asked. "what do you mean?" ramsay inquired. "pound nets we need, pound boats. men to help us set them. more salt and more barrels. we owe baptiste. or shall we divide what we have and keep on fishing with the seine?" "will it take so much to buy those things of which you speak?" marta inquired. "this and more, if we really want to take fish." "then let's do it!" marta declared. "pieter?" hans inquired. "fishing beats farming." "ramsay?" "i came here to fish." "come with me." hans hitched the little black horse, and ramsay climbed up on the cart beside him. captain klaus, hurrying frantically from his perch atop the house, alighted on the cart and caressed hans with his bill. the dutch fisherman whistled happily as he drove along, and ramsay grinned. this was the way to get things done; work every second of every day to catch fish and then, without even thinking twice about it, invest everything they had earned in more equipment so they could catch even more fish. captain klaus winged off the cart to go and see what some of his wild relatives along the lake shore were doing. ramsay turned to hans, "how big is this pound net?" "ha! you have never seen one?" "never." "soon you will. very soon you will. there are a lot of pieces in each net and, all together, they weigh about six hundred and fifty pounds. it will cost, i think, about thirty cents a pound, or perhaps two hundred dollars for each net. then we shall need at least one pound boat, and that will cost an additional two hundred dollars. we shall need more rope, perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds, at a cost of about nine cents a pound. then we shall have to hire men to help us drive spiles for the net. we need more barrels, more salt. the money we have here will provide us with no more than one net." "how many should we have?" "i think that you, i and pieter could handle three on part time. we could very well use seven or eight if we gave full time to pound nets. however, as soon as we get three in working order--and meanwhile we will continue to seine--we will build a good mackinaw boat, like the _spray_, and use gill nets, too." ramsay whistled. "we're really getting in deep!" "ah, yes!" hans said gleefully. "but the fishing, it is a business! it is the only business for a man!" ramsay pondered thoughtfully. devil chad, who lately h