Chapter Nine.

Chapter Nine.Another Drag-Net hauled—The Mission Smack.When the steamer left the fleet the wind was beginning to moderate, and all eyes were turned as usual towards the admiral’s smack to observe his movements.The fishing vessels were still crowded together, running to and fro, out and in, without definite purpose, plunging over the heaving swells—some of them visible on the crests, others half hidden in the hollows—and behaving generally like living creatures that were impatiently awaiting the signal to begin a race.While in this position two smacks came so near to theEvening Star, on opposite sides, that they seemed bent on running her down. David Bright did not concern himself, however. He knew they were well able to take care of themselves. They both sheered off to avoid him, but after doing so, ran rather near to each other.“One o’ them b’longs to the Swab,” said Billy.“Ay,” said Joe, “if he hadn’t swabbed up too much liquor this morning, he wouldn’t steer like that. Why, hewillfoul her!”As he spoke the Swab’s bowsprit passed just inside one of the ropes of the other vessel, and was snapped off as if it had been a pipe-stem.“Sarves him right,” growled Gunter.“It’s a pity all the same,” said Trevor. “If we all got what we deserve, we’d be in a worse case than we are to-day mayhap.”“Come, now, Gunter,” said Joe, “don’t look so cross. We’ll have a chance this arternoon, I see, to bear away for the mission-ship, an’ git somethin’ for your shins, and a bandage for Spivin’s cut, as well as some cuffs for them that wants ’em.”Captain Bright did not like visiting the mission-ship, having no sympathy with her work, but as she happened to be not far distant at the time, and he was in want of surgical assistance, he had no reasonable ground for objecting.By this time the admiral had signalled to steer to the nor’-east, and the fleet was soon racing to windward, all on the same tack. Gradually theEvening Staroverhauled the mission-ship, but before she had quite overtaken her, the wind, which had been failing, fell to a dead calm. The distance between the two vessels, however, not being great, the boat was launched, and the skipper, Luke Trevor, Gunter and Billy went off in her.The mission vessel, to which reference has more than once been made, is a fishing-smack in the service of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and serves the purpose of a floating church, a dispensary, a temperance halt and a library to a portion of the North Sea fleet. It fills a peculiar as well as a very important position, which requires explanation.Only a few years ago a visitor to the North Sea fleet observed, with much concern, that hundreds of the men and boys who manned it were living godless as well as toilsome lives, with no one—at least in winter—to care for their souls. At the same time he noted that the Dutchcopers, or floating grog-shops, were regularly appointed to supply the fleets with cheap and bad spirits, and stuck to them through fair-weather and foul, in summer and winter, enduring hardship and encountering danger and great risk in pursuit of their evil calling. Up to that time a few lay missionaries and Bible-readers had occasionally gone to visit the fleets in the summer-time, (see Appendix), but the visitor of whom we write felt that there was a screw loose here, and reasoned with himself somewhat thus:—“Shall the devil have his mission-ships, whose crews are not afraid to face the winter gales, and shall the servants of the Lord be mere fair-weather Christians, carrying their blessed and all-important message of love and peace to these hard-working and almost forsaken men only during a summer-trip to the North Sea? If fishmustbe caught, and the lives of fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons be not only risked but lost for the purpose, has not the Master got men who are ready to say, ‘The glorious Gospelmustbe carried to these men, and we will hoist our flag on the North Sea summer and winter, so as to be a constant witness there for our God and His Christ?’”For thirty years before, it has been said, a very few earnest Christians among the fishermen of the fleet had been praying that some such thoughts might be put into the hearts of men who had the power to render help.We venture to observe in passing that, perchance, those praying fishermen were not so “few” as appearances might lead us to suppose, for God has His “hidden ones” everywhere, and some of these may have been at the throne of grace long prior to the “thirty years” here mentioned.Let not the reader object to turn aside a few minutes to consider how greatly help was needed—forty-six weeks or so on the sea in all weathers all the year round, broken by a week at a time—or about six or seven weeks altogether—on shore with wife and family; the rest, hard unvarying toil and exposure, with nothing to do during the brief intervals of leisure—nothing to read, nothing new to think of, no church to raise the mind to the Creator, and distinguish the Sabbath from the week-day, and no social intercourse of a natural kind, (for a society of men only is not natural), to elevate them above the lower animals, and with only drinking and gambling left to degrade them below these creatures; and this for forty or fifty years of their lives, with, in too many cases, neither hope nor thought beyond!At last the fishermen’s prayers were answered, the thoughts of the visitor bore fruit, and, convinced that he was being led by God, he began to move in the matter with prayer and energy. The result was that in the year 1881 he received the unsolicited offer of a smack which should be at his entire disposal for mission purposes, but should endeavour to sustain herself, if possible, by fishing like the rest of the fleet. The vessel was accepted. A Christian skipper and fisherman, named Budd, and a like-minded crew, were put into her; she was fitted out with an extra cabin, with cupboards for a library and other conveniences. The hold was arranged with a view to being converted into a chapel on Sundays, and it was decided that, in order to keep it clear on such days, the trawl should not be let down on Saturday nights; a large medicine-chest—which was afterwards reported to be “one of the greatest blessings in the fleet,”—was put on board; the captain made a colporteur of the Bible Society, agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society and of the Church of England Temperance Society. The Religious Tract Society, and various publishers, made a grant of books to form the nucleus of a free lending library; the National Lifeboat Institution presented an aneroid barometer, and Messrs Hewett and Company made a present of the insurance premium of 50 pounds. Thus furnished and armed, as aforesaid, as a Mission Church, Temperance Hall, Circulating Library, and Dispensary, the little craft one day sailed in amongst the smacks of the “Short Blue” fleet, amid the boisterous greetings of the crews, and took up her position under the name of theEnsign, with a great twenty-feet Mission-flag flying at the main-mast-head.This, then was the style of vessel towards which the boat of theEvening Starwas now being pulled over a superficially smooth but still heaving sea. The boat was not alone. Other smacks, the masters of which as well as some of the men were professed Christians, had availed themselves of the opportunity to visit the mission smack, while not a few had come, like the master of theEvening Star, to procure medicine and books, so that when David Bright drew near he observed the deck to be pretty well crowded, while a long tail of boats floated astern, and more were seen coming over the waves to the rendezvous.It was no solemn meeting that. Shore-going folk, who are too apt to connect religious gatherings with Sunday clothes, subdued voices, and long faces, would have had their ideas changed if they had seen it. Men of the roughest cast, mentally and physically, were there, in heavy boots and dirty garments, laughing and chatting, and greeting one another; some of the younger among them sky-larking in a mild way—that is, giving an occasional poke in the ribs that would have been an average blow to a “land-lubber,” or a tip to a hat which sent it on the deck, or a slap on the back like a pistol-shot. There seemed to be “no humbug,” as the saying goes, among these men; no pretence, and all was kindly good-fellowship, for those who were on the Lord’s side showed it—if need were, said it—while those who were not, felt perhaps, that they were in a minority and kept quiet.“Come along, Joe, what cheer!”“Here you are, Bill—how goes it, my hearty!”“All well, praise the Lord.”“Ay, hasn’t He sent us fine weather at the right time? just to let us have a comfortable meetin’!”“That’s so, Dick, the Master does all things well.”“What cheer! Johnson, I’m glad to seeyouhere. The boy has got some cocoa for’ard—have some?”“Thank ’ee, I will.”Such were some of the expressions heartily uttered, which flew about as friend met friend on the mission deck.“I say, Harry,” cried one, “was it you that lost your bowsprit this mornin’?”“No, it was the Swab,” said Harry, “but we lost our net and all the gear last night.”“That was unfort’nit,” remarked a friend in a tone of sympathy, which attracted the attention of some of those who stood near.“Ah! lads,” said the master of the mission-ship, “that was a small matter compared with the loss suffered by poor Daniel Rodger. Did you hear of it?”“Yes, yes,” said some. “No,” said another. “I thought I saw his flag half-mast this mornin’, but was too fur off to make sure.”Most of the men crowded round the master of the smack, while, in deep sad tones, he told how the son of Daniel Rodger had, during the night, been swept overboard by a heavy sea and drowned before the boat could be launched to rescue him. “But,” continued the speaker in a cheerful voice, “the dear boy was a follower of Jesus, and he is now with Him.”When this was said, “Praise the Lord!” and “Thank God!” broke from several of the men in tones of unmistakable sincerity.It was at this point that the boat of theEvening Starranged alongside. The master of the mission smack went to the side and held out his hand, which David Bright grasped with his right, grappling the smack’s rail at the same time with his left, and vaulted inboard with a hearty salutation. As heartily was it returned, especially by the unbelievers on board, who, perchance, regarded him as a welcome accession to their numbers!Billy, Gunter, and the others tumbled on to the deck in the usual indescribable manner, and the former, making fast the long painter, added theEvening Star’sboat to the lengthening flotilla astern.“Your man seems to be hurt,” said the master of the mission smack—whom we may well style the missionary—“not badly, I hope. You’re limpin’ a bit.”“Oh! nothin’ to speak of,” growled Gunter, “on’y a bit o’ skin knocked off.”“We’ll put that all right soon,” returned the missionary, shaking hands with the other members of the crew. “But p’r’aps you’d like to go below with us, first. We’re goin’ to hold a little service. It’ll be more comfortable under hatches than on deck.”“No, thank ’ee,” replied Gunter with decision. “I’ll wait till yer done.”“P’r’apsyouwould like to come?” said the missionary to the captain.“Well, I—I may as well as not,” said David with some hesitation.“Come along then, lads,” and the genial sailor-missionary led the way to the capacious hold, which had been swept clean, and some dozens of fish-boxes set up on end in rows. These, besides being handy, formed excellent seats to men who were not much used to arm-chairs.In a few seconds the little church on the Ocean Wilderness was nearly full of earnest, thoughtful men, for these fishermen were charmingly natural as well as enthusiastic. They did not assume solemn expressions, but all thought of sky-larking or levity seemed to have vanished as they entered the hold, and earnestness almost necessarily involves gravity.With eager expectation they gazed at their leader while he gave out a hymn.“You’ll find little books on the table here, those of you who haven’t got ’em,” he said, pointing to a little pile of red-covered booklets at his side. “We’ll sing the 272nd.“‘Sing them over again to me,Wonderful words of life!’”Really, reader, it is not easy to convey in words the effect of the singing of that congregation! Nothing that we on land are accustomed to can compare with it. In the first place, the volume of sound was tremendous, for these men seemed to have been gifted with leathern lungs and brazen throats. Many of the voices were tuneful as well as powerful. One or two, indeed, were little better than cracked tea-kettles, but the good voices effectually drowned the cracked kettles. Moreover, there was deep enthusiasm in many of the hearts present, and the hold was small. We leave the rest to the reader’s imagination, but we are bound to say that it had a thrilling effect. And they were sorry, too, when the hymn was finished. This was obvious, for when one of the singers began the last verse over again the others joined him with alacrity and sang it straight through. Even Gunter and those like-minded men who had remained on deck were moved by the fervour of the singing.Then the sailor-missionary offered a prayer, as simple as it was straightforward and short, after which a chapter was read, and another hymn sung. Then came the discourse, founded on the words, “Whosoever will.”“There you have it, lads—clear as the sun at noonday—free as the rolling sea. The worst drunkard and swearer in the Short Blue comes under that ‘whosoever’—ay, the worst man in the world, for Jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost.” (“Praise God!” ejaculated one of the earnest listeners fervently.)But fear not, reader, we have no intention of treating you to a semi-nautical sermon. Whether you be Christian or not, our desire is simply to paint for you a true picture of life on the North Sea as we have seen it, and, as it were unwise to omit the deepest shadows from a picture, so would it be inexcusable to leave out the highest lights—even although you should fail to recognise them as such.The discourse was not long, but the earnestness of the preacher was very real. The effect on his audience was varied. Most of them sympathised deeply, and seemed to listen as much with eyes as ears. A few, who had not come there for religious purposes, wore somewhat cynical, even scornful, expressions at first, but these were partially subdued by the manner of the speaker as he reasoned of spiritual things and the world to come.On deck, Gunter and those who had stayed with him became curious to know what the “preachin’ skipper” was saying, and drew near to the fore-hatch, up which the tones of his strong voice travelled. Gradually they bent their heads down and lay at full-length on the deck listening intently to every word. They noted, also, the frequent ejaculations of assent, and the aspirations of hope that escaped from the audience.Not one, but two or three hymns were sung after the discourse was over, and one after another of the fishermen prayed. They were very loath to break up, but, a breeze having arisen, it became necessary that they should depart, so they came on deck at last, and an animated scene of receiving and exchanging books, magazines, tracts, and pamphlets ensued. Then, also, Gunter got some salve for his shins, Ned Spivin had his cut hand dressed and plastered. Cuffs were supplied to those whose wrists had been damaged, and gratuitous advice was given generally to all to give up drink.“An’ don’t let the moderate drinkers deceive you lads,” said the skipper, “as they’re apt to do—an’ no wonder, for they deceive themselves. Moderate drinkin’ may be good, for all I know, for old folk an’ sick folk, but it’snotgood for young and healthy men. They don’t need stimulants, an’ if they take what they don’t need they’re sure to suffer for it. There’s a terriblelinein drinkin’, an’ if you once cross that line, your case is all but hopeless. I once knew a man who crossed it, and when that man began to drink he used to say that he did it in ‘moderation,’ an’ he went on in ‘moderation,’ an’ the evil was so slow in workin’ that he never yet knew when he crossed the line, an’ he died at last of what he called moderate drinkin’. They all begin in moderation, but some of ’em go on to the ruin of body, soul, an’ spirit, rather than give up their moderation! Come now, lads, I want one or two o’ you young fellows to sign the temperance pledge. It can’t cost you much to do it just now, but if you grow up drinkers you may reach a point—I don’t know where that point lies—to come back from which will cost you something like the tearing of your souls out o’ your bodies. You’ll come, won’t you?”“Yes, I’ll go,” said a bright young fisherman with a frame like Hercules and a face almost as soft as that of a girl.“That’s right! Come down.”“And I’ve brought two o’ my boys,” said a burly man with a cast-iron sort of face, who had been himself an abstainer for many years.While the master of the mission smack was producing the materials for signing the pledge in the cabin, he took occasion to explain that the signing was only a help towards the great end of temperance; that nothing but conversion to God, and constant trust in the living Saviour, could make man or woman safe.“It’s not hard to understand,” he said, looking the youths earnestly in the eyes. “See here, suppose an unbeliever determines to get the better of his besettin’ sin. He’s man enough to strive well for a time. At last he begins to grow a little weary o’ the battle—itisso awful hard. Better almost to die an’ be done with it, he sometimes thinks. Then comes a day when his temptation is ten times more than he is able to bear. He throws up the sponge; he has done his best an’ failed, so away he goes like the sow that was washed to his wallowing in the mire. But he hasnotdone his best. He hasnotgone to his Maker; an’ surely the maker of a machine is the best judge o’ how to mend it. Now, when a believer in Jesus comes to the same point o’ temptation he falls on his knees an’ cries for help; an’ he gets it too, for faithful is He that has promised to help those who call upon Him in trouble. Many a man has fallen on his knees as weak as a baby, and risen up as strong as a giant.”“Here,” said a voice close to the speaker’s elbow, “here, hand me the pen, an’ I’ll sign the pledge.”“What,you, Billy Bright!” said the missionary, smiling at the precocious manliness of the little fellow. “Does your father want you to do it?”“Oh! you never mind what my father wants. He leaves me pretty much to do as I please—except smoke, and as he won’t let me do that. I mean to spite him by refusin’ to drink when he wants me to.”“But I’m afraid, Billy,” returned the missionary, laughing, “that that’s not quite the spirit in which to sign the pledge.”“Did I say it was, old boy!” retorted Billy, seizing the pen, dabbing it into the ink, and signing his name in a wild straggling sort of way, ending with a huge round blot.“There, that’ll do instead of a full stop,” he said, thrusting his little hands into his pockets as he swaggered out of the cabin and went on deck.“He’ll make a rare good man, or an awful bad ’un, that,” said the missionary skipper, casting a kindly look after the boy.Soon afterwards the boats left the mission smack, and her crew began to bustle about, making preparation to let down the gear whenever the Admiral should give the signal.“We carry two sorts of trawl-nets, Andrew,” said the captain to his mate, who was like-minded in all respects, “and I think we have caught some men to-day with one of ’em—praise the Lord!”“Yes, praise the Lord!” said the mate, and apparently deeming this, as it was, a sufficient reply, he went about his work in silence.The breeze freshened. The shades of night gathered; the Admiral gave his signal; the nets were shot and the Short Blue fleet sailed away into the deepening darkness of the wild North Sea.Note. Since that day additional vessels have been attached to the Mission-fleet, which now, 1886, consists of five smacks—and will probably, ere long, number many more—all earning their own maintenance while serving the Mission cause. But these do by no means meet the requirements of the various North Sea fleets. There are still in those fleets thousands of men and boys who derive no benefit from the Mission vessels already sent out, because they belong to fleets to which Mission-ships have not yet been attached; and it is the earnest prayer of those engaged in the good work that liberal-minded Christians may send funds to enable them not only to carry on, but to extend, their operations in this interesting field of labour.

When the steamer left the fleet the wind was beginning to moderate, and all eyes were turned as usual towards the admiral’s smack to observe his movements.

The fishing vessels were still crowded together, running to and fro, out and in, without definite purpose, plunging over the heaving swells—some of them visible on the crests, others half hidden in the hollows—and behaving generally like living creatures that were impatiently awaiting the signal to begin a race.

While in this position two smacks came so near to theEvening Star, on opposite sides, that they seemed bent on running her down. David Bright did not concern himself, however. He knew they were well able to take care of themselves. They both sheered off to avoid him, but after doing so, ran rather near to each other.

“One o’ them b’longs to the Swab,” said Billy.

“Ay,” said Joe, “if he hadn’t swabbed up too much liquor this morning, he wouldn’t steer like that. Why, hewillfoul her!”

As he spoke the Swab’s bowsprit passed just inside one of the ropes of the other vessel, and was snapped off as if it had been a pipe-stem.

“Sarves him right,” growled Gunter.

“It’s a pity all the same,” said Trevor. “If we all got what we deserve, we’d be in a worse case than we are to-day mayhap.”

“Come, now, Gunter,” said Joe, “don’t look so cross. We’ll have a chance this arternoon, I see, to bear away for the mission-ship, an’ git somethin’ for your shins, and a bandage for Spivin’s cut, as well as some cuffs for them that wants ’em.”

Captain Bright did not like visiting the mission-ship, having no sympathy with her work, but as she happened to be not far distant at the time, and he was in want of surgical assistance, he had no reasonable ground for objecting.

By this time the admiral had signalled to steer to the nor’-east, and the fleet was soon racing to windward, all on the same tack. Gradually theEvening Staroverhauled the mission-ship, but before she had quite overtaken her, the wind, which had been failing, fell to a dead calm. The distance between the two vessels, however, not being great, the boat was launched, and the skipper, Luke Trevor, Gunter and Billy went off in her.

The mission vessel, to which reference has more than once been made, is a fishing-smack in the service of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and serves the purpose of a floating church, a dispensary, a temperance halt and a library to a portion of the North Sea fleet. It fills a peculiar as well as a very important position, which requires explanation.

Only a few years ago a visitor to the North Sea fleet observed, with much concern, that hundreds of the men and boys who manned it were living godless as well as toilsome lives, with no one—at least in winter—to care for their souls. At the same time he noted that the Dutchcopers, or floating grog-shops, were regularly appointed to supply the fleets with cheap and bad spirits, and stuck to them through fair-weather and foul, in summer and winter, enduring hardship and encountering danger and great risk in pursuit of their evil calling. Up to that time a few lay missionaries and Bible-readers had occasionally gone to visit the fleets in the summer-time, (see Appendix), but the visitor of whom we write felt that there was a screw loose here, and reasoned with himself somewhat thus:—

“Shall the devil have his mission-ships, whose crews are not afraid to face the winter gales, and shall the servants of the Lord be mere fair-weather Christians, carrying their blessed and all-important message of love and peace to these hard-working and almost forsaken men only during a summer-trip to the North Sea? If fishmustbe caught, and the lives of fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons be not only risked but lost for the purpose, has not the Master got men who are ready to say, ‘The glorious Gospelmustbe carried to these men, and we will hoist our flag on the North Sea summer and winter, so as to be a constant witness there for our God and His Christ?’”

For thirty years before, it has been said, a very few earnest Christians among the fishermen of the fleet had been praying that some such thoughts might be put into the hearts of men who had the power to render help.

We venture to observe in passing that, perchance, those praying fishermen were not so “few” as appearances might lead us to suppose, for God has His “hidden ones” everywhere, and some of these may have been at the throne of grace long prior to the “thirty years” here mentioned.

Let not the reader object to turn aside a few minutes to consider how greatly help was needed—forty-six weeks or so on the sea in all weathers all the year round, broken by a week at a time—or about six or seven weeks altogether—on shore with wife and family; the rest, hard unvarying toil and exposure, with nothing to do during the brief intervals of leisure—nothing to read, nothing new to think of, no church to raise the mind to the Creator, and distinguish the Sabbath from the week-day, and no social intercourse of a natural kind, (for a society of men only is not natural), to elevate them above the lower animals, and with only drinking and gambling left to degrade them below these creatures; and this for forty or fifty years of their lives, with, in too many cases, neither hope nor thought beyond!

At last the fishermen’s prayers were answered, the thoughts of the visitor bore fruit, and, convinced that he was being led by God, he began to move in the matter with prayer and energy. The result was that in the year 1881 he received the unsolicited offer of a smack which should be at his entire disposal for mission purposes, but should endeavour to sustain herself, if possible, by fishing like the rest of the fleet. The vessel was accepted. A Christian skipper and fisherman, named Budd, and a like-minded crew, were put into her; she was fitted out with an extra cabin, with cupboards for a library and other conveniences. The hold was arranged with a view to being converted into a chapel on Sundays, and it was decided that, in order to keep it clear on such days, the trawl should not be let down on Saturday nights; a large medicine-chest—which was afterwards reported to be “one of the greatest blessings in the fleet,”—was put on board; the captain made a colporteur of the Bible Society, agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society and of the Church of England Temperance Society. The Religious Tract Society, and various publishers, made a grant of books to form the nucleus of a free lending library; the National Lifeboat Institution presented an aneroid barometer, and Messrs Hewett and Company made a present of the insurance premium of 50 pounds. Thus furnished and armed, as aforesaid, as a Mission Church, Temperance Hall, Circulating Library, and Dispensary, the little craft one day sailed in amongst the smacks of the “Short Blue” fleet, amid the boisterous greetings of the crews, and took up her position under the name of theEnsign, with a great twenty-feet Mission-flag flying at the main-mast-head.

This, then was the style of vessel towards which the boat of theEvening Starwas now being pulled over a superficially smooth but still heaving sea. The boat was not alone. Other smacks, the masters of which as well as some of the men were professed Christians, had availed themselves of the opportunity to visit the mission smack, while not a few had come, like the master of theEvening Star, to procure medicine and books, so that when David Bright drew near he observed the deck to be pretty well crowded, while a long tail of boats floated astern, and more were seen coming over the waves to the rendezvous.

It was no solemn meeting that. Shore-going folk, who are too apt to connect religious gatherings with Sunday clothes, subdued voices, and long faces, would have had their ideas changed if they had seen it. Men of the roughest cast, mentally and physically, were there, in heavy boots and dirty garments, laughing and chatting, and greeting one another; some of the younger among them sky-larking in a mild way—that is, giving an occasional poke in the ribs that would have been an average blow to a “land-lubber,” or a tip to a hat which sent it on the deck, or a slap on the back like a pistol-shot. There seemed to be “no humbug,” as the saying goes, among these men; no pretence, and all was kindly good-fellowship, for those who were on the Lord’s side showed it—if need were, said it—while those who were not, felt perhaps, that they were in a minority and kept quiet.

“Come along, Joe, what cheer!”

“Here you are, Bill—how goes it, my hearty!”

“All well, praise the Lord.”

“Ay, hasn’t He sent us fine weather at the right time? just to let us have a comfortable meetin’!”

“That’s so, Dick, the Master does all things well.”

“What cheer! Johnson, I’m glad to seeyouhere. The boy has got some cocoa for’ard—have some?”

“Thank ’ee, I will.”

Such were some of the expressions heartily uttered, which flew about as friend met friend on the mission deck.

“I say, Harry,” cried one, “was it you that lost your bowsprit this mornin’?”

“No, it was the Swab,” said Harry, “but we lost our net and all the gear last night.”

“That was unfort’nit,” remarked a friend in a tone of sympathy, which attracted the attention of some of those who stood near.

“Ah! lads,” said the master of the mission-ship, “that was a small matter compared with the loss suffered by poor Daniel Rodger. Did you hear of it?”

“Yes, yes,” said some. “No,” said another. “I thought I saw his flag half-mast this mornin’, but was too fur off to make sure.”

Most of the men crowded round the master of the smack, while, in deep sad tones, he told how the son of Daniel Rodger had, during the night, been swept overboard by a heavy sea and drowned before the boat could be launched to rescue him. “But,” continued the speaker in a cheerful voice, “the dear boy was a follower of Jesus, and he is now with Him.”

When this was said, “Praise the Lord!” and “Thank God!” broke from several of the men in tones of unmistakable sincerity.

It was at this point that the boat of theEvening Starranged alongside. The master of the mission smack went to the side and held out his hand, which David Bright grasped with his right, grappling the smack’s rail at the same time with his left, and vaulted inboard with a hearty salutation. As heartily was it returned, especially by the unbelievers on board, who, perchance, regarded him as a welcome accession to their numbers!

Billy, Gunter, and the others tumbled on to the deck in the usual indescribable manner, and the former, making fast the long painter, added theEvening Star’sboat to the lengthening flotilla astern.

“Your man seems to be hurt,” said the master of the mission smack—whom we may well style the missionary—“not badly, I hope. You’re limpin’ a bit.”

“Oh! nothin’ to speak of,” growled Gunter, “on’y a bit o’ skin knocked off.”

“We’ll put that all right soon,” returned the missionary, shaking hands with the other members of the crew. “But p’r’aps you’d like to go below with us, first. We’re goin’ to hold a little service. It’ll be more comfortable under hatches than on deck.”

“No, thank ’ee,” replied Gunter with decision. “I’ll wait till yer done.”

“P’r’apsyouwould like to come?” said the missionary to the captain.

“Well, I—I may as well as not,” said David with some hesitation.

“Come along then, lads,” and the genial sailor-missionary led the way to the capacious hold, which had been swept clean, and some dozens of fish-boxes set up on end in rows. These, besides being handy, formed excellent seats to men who were not much used to arm-chairs.

In a few seconds the little church on the Ocean Wilderness was nearly full of earnest, thoughtful men, for these fishermen were charmingly natural as well as enthusiastic. They did not assume solemn expressions, but all thought of sky-larking or levity seemed to have vanished as they entered the hold, and earnestness almost necessarily involves gravity.

With eager expectation they gazed at their leader while he gave out a hymn.

“You’ll find little books on the table here, those of you who haven’t got ’em,” he said, pointing to a little pile of red-covered booklets at his side. “We’ll sing the 272nd.

“‘Sing them over again to me,Wonderful words of life!’”

“‘Sing them over again to me,Wonderful words of life!’”

Really, reader, it is not easy to convey in words the effect of the singing of that congregation! Nothing that we on land are accustomed to can compare with it. In the first place, the volume of sound was tremendous, for these men seemed to have been gifted with leathern lungs and brazen throats. Many of the voices were tuneful as well as powerful. One or two, indeed, were little better than cracked tea-kettles, but the good voices effectually drowned the cracked kettles. Moreover, there was deep enthusiasm in many of the hearts present, and the hold was small. We leave the rest to the reader’s imagination, but we are bound to say that it had a thrilling effect. And they were sorry, too, when the hymn was finished. This was obvious, for when one of the singers began the last verse over again the others joined him with alacrity and sang it straight through. Even Gunter and those like-minded men who had remained on deck were moved by the fervour of the singing.

Then the sailor-missionary offered a prayer, as simple as it was straightforward and short, after which a chapter was read, and another hymn sung. Then came the discourse, founded on the words, “Whosoever will.”

“There you have it, lads—clear as the sun at noonday—free as the rolling sea. The worst drunkard and swearer in the Short Blue comes under that ‘whosoever’—ay, the worst man in the world, for Jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost.” (“Praise God!” ejaculated one of the earnest listeners fervently.)

But fear not, reader, we have no intention of treating you to a semi-nautical sermon. Whether you be Christian or not, our desire is simply to paint for you a true picture of life on the North Sea as we have seen it, and, as it were unwise to omit the deepest shadows from a picture, so would it be inexcusable to leave out the highest lights—even although you should fail to recognise them as such.

The discourse was not long, but the earnestness of the preacher was very real. The effect on his audience was varied. Most of them sympathised deeply, and seemed to listen as much with eyes as ears. A few, who had not come there for religious purposes, wore somewhat cynical, even scornful, expressions at first, but these were partially subdued by the manner of the speaker as he reasoned of spiritual things and the world to come.

On deck, Gunter and those who had stayed with him became curious to know what the “preachin’ skipper” was saying, and drew near to the fore-hatch, up which the tones of his strong voice travelled. Gradually they bent their heads down and lay at full-length on the deck listening intently to every word. They noted, also, the frequent ejaculations of assent, and the aspirations of hope that escaped from the audience.

Not one, but two or three hymns were sung after the discourse was over, and one after another of the fishermen prayed. They were very loath to break up, but, a breeze having arisen, it became necessary that they should depart, so they came on deck at last, and an animated scene of receiving and exchanging books, magazines, tracts, and pamphlets ensued. Then, also, Gunter got some salve for his shins, Ned Spivin had his cut hand dressed and plastered. Cuffs were supplied to those whose wrists had been damaged, and gratuitous advice was given generally to all to give up drink.

“An’ don’t let the moderate drinkers deceive you lads,” said the skipper, “as they’re apt to do—an’ no wonder, for they deceive themselves. Moderate drinkin’ may be good, for all I know, for old folk an’ sick folk, but it’snotgood for young and healthy men. They don’t need stimulants, an’ if they take what they don’t need they’re sure to suffer for it. There’s a terriblelinein drinkin’, an’ if you once cross that line, your case is all but hopeless. I once knew a man who crossed it, and when that man began to drink he used to say that he did it in ‘moderation,’ an’ he went on in ‘moderation,’ an’ the evil was so slow in workin’ that he never yet knew when he crossed the line, an’ he died at last of what he called moderate drinkin’. They all begin in moderation, but some of ’em go on to the ruin of body, soul, an’ spirit, rather than give up their moderation! Come now, lads, I want one or two o’ you young fellows to sign the temperance pledge. It can’t cost you much to do it just now, but if you grow up drinkers you may reach a point—I don’t know where that point lies—to come back from which will cost you something like the tearing of your souls out o’ your bodies. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll go,” said a bright young fisherman with a frame like Hercules and a face almost as soft as that of a girl.

“That’s right! Come down.”

“And I’ve brought two o’ my boys,” said a burly man with a cast-iron sort of face, who had been himself an abstainer for many years.

While the master of the mission smack was producing the materials for signing the pledge in the cabin, he took occasion to explain that the signing was only a help towards the great end of temperance; that nothing but conversion to God, and constant trust in the living Saviour, could make man or woman safe.

“It’s not hard to understand,” he said, looking the youths earnestly in the eyes. “See here, suppose an unbeliever determines to get the better of his besettin’ sin. He’s man enough to strive well for a time. At last he begins to grow a little weary o’ the battle—itisso awful hard. Better almost to die an’ be done with it, he sometimes thinks. Then comes a day when his temptation is ten times more than he is able to bear. He throws up the sponge; he has done his best an’ failed, so away he goes like the sow that was washed to his wallowing in the mire. But he hasnotdone his best. He hasnotgone to his Maker; an’ surely the maker of a machine is the best judge o’ how to mend it. Now, when a believer in Jesus comes to the same point o’ temptation he falls on his knees an’ cries for help; an’ he gets it too, for faithful is He that has promised to help those who call upon Him in trouble. Many a man has fallen on his knees as weak as a baby, and risen up as strong as a giant.”

“Here,” said a voice close to the speaker’s elbow, “here, hand me the pen, an’ I’ll sign the pledge.”

“What,you, Billy Bright!” said the missionary, smiling at the precocious manliness of the little fellow. “Does your father want you to do it?”

“Oh! you never mind what my father wants. He leaves me pretty much to do as I please—except smoke, and as he won’t let me do that. I mean to spite him by refusin’ to drink when he wants me to.”

“But I’m afraid, Billy,” returned the missionary, laughing, “that that’s not quite the spirit in which to sign the pledge.”

“Did I say it was, old boy!” retorted Billy, seizing the pen, dabbing it into the ink, and signing his name in a wild straggling sort of way, ending with a huge round blot.

“There, that’ll do instead of a full stop,” he said, thrusting his little hands into his pockets as he swaggered out of the cabin and went on deck.

“He’ll make a rare good man, or an awful bad ’un, that,” said the missionary skipper, casting a kindly look after the boy.

Soon afterwards the boats left the mission smack, and her crew began to bustle about, making preparation to let down the gear whenever the Admiral should give the signal.

“We carry two sorts of trawl-nets, Andrew,” said the captain to his mate, who was like-minded in all respects, “and I think we have caught some men to-day with one of ’em—praise the Lord!”

“Yes, praise the Lord!” said the mate, and apparently deeming this, as it was, a sufficient reply, he went about his work in silence.

The breeze freshened. The shades of night gathered; the Admiral gave his signal; the nets were shot and the Short Blue fleet sailed away into the deepening darkness of the wild North Sea.

Note. Since that day additional vessels have been attached to the Mission-fleet, which now, 1886, consists of five smacks—and will probably, ere long, number many more—all earning their own maintenance while serving the Mission cause. But these do by no means meet the requirements of the various North Sea fleets. There are still in those fleets thousands of men and boys who derive no benefit from the Mission vessels already sent out, because they belong to fleets to which Mission-ships have not yet been attached; and it is the earnest prayer of those engaged in the good work that liberal-minded Christians may send funds to enable them not only to carry on, but to extend, their operations in this interesting field of labour.

Chapter Ten.A Strong Contrast—A Victim of the Coper.Birds of a feather flock together, undoubtedly—at sea as well as on land. As surely as Johnston, and Moore, and Jim Frost, and such men, hung about the mission-ship—ready to go aboard and to have a little meeting when suitable calms occurred, so surely did David Bright, the Swab, and other like-minded men, find themselves in the neighbourhood of the Coper when there was nothing to be done in the way of fishing.Two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, the Swab—whose proper name was Dick Herring, and who sailed his own smack, theWhite Cloud—found himself in the neighbourhood of the floating grog-shop.“Get out the boat, Brock,” said Herring to his mate—who has already been introduced to the reader as Pimply Brock, and whose nose rendered any explanation of that name unnecessary; “take some fish, an’ get as much as you can for ’em.”The Swab did not name what his mate was to procure in barter with the fish, neither did Brock ask. It was an old-established order, well understood.Soon Brock and two hands were on their way to the floating “poison-shop,” as one of the men had named it. He was affectionately received there, and, ere long, returned to theWhite Cloudwith a supply of fire-water.“You’re good at a bargain, Brock,” said his master, with an approving nod, tossing off a glass of the demon that held him as if in chains of steel—chains that no man could break. “I wish,” he added, looking round on the sea wistfully, “that some of our friends would come to join us in a spree.”“So do I,” said Brock, slightly inflaming his nasal pimples, by pouring a glass of spirits down his throat.There must be some strange, subtle sympathy between drunkards, for, at the very time these two men expressed their wish, the master of theEvening Starsaid to Gunter, “Get out the boat. I’ll go cruisin’.”It must not be supposed that by this he meant to declare his intention of going off on a lengthened voyage in his little boat. David Bright only meant that, having observed through his telescope the little transaction between theWhite Cloudand the Coper, his intention was to pay that vessel a visit—to go carousing, or, as the North Sea smacksmen have it, “cruisin’.”Gunter obeyed the order with satisfaction and alacrity.“Jump in, Spivin, and you come too, Billy.”“I say, father,” said the boy in a low voice, “are ye goin’ to drink wi’ the Swab after what ye heard aboard the mission smack?”“You clap a stopper on your jaw an’ obey orders,” replied the skipper angrily.Although full of light-hearted insolence, which his mates called cheek, Billy was by no means a rebellious boy. He knew, from sad experience, that when his father made up his mind to “go in for a drinking-bout,” the consequences were often deplorable, and fain would he have dissuaded him, but he also knew that to persist in opposing him would only make matters worse, and probably bring severe chastisement on himself. With an air of quiet gravity, therefore, that seemed very unnatural to him, he leaped into the boat and took an oar.“What cheer, David?” said the Swab, offering his rugged hand when the former jumped on the deck of theWhite Cloud. “I thought you’d come.”“You was right, Dick,” returned David, shaking the proffered hand.“Come below, an’ wet your whistle. Bring your men too,” said Dick. “This is a new hand?” pointing to Ned.“Ay, he’s noo, is Ned Spivin, but he can drink.”“Come down, then, all of ’ee.”Now, Ned Spivin was one of those yielding good-natured youths who find it impossible to resist what may be styled good-fellowship. If you had tried to force Ned Spivin, to order him, or to frighten him into any course, he would have laughed in your face and fought you if necessary; but if you tempted Ned to do evil by kindly tones and looks, he was powerless to resist.“You’re right, skipper, I can drink—sometimes.” They all went below, leaving Billy on deck “to look after the boat,” as his father said, though, being made fast, the boat required no looking after.Immediately the party in the little cabin had a glass round. Ere long it occurred to them that they might have another glass. Of course they did not require to be reminded of their pipes, and as nearly all the crew was in the little cabin, besides the visitors, the fumes from pipes and glasses soon brought the atmosphere to a condition that would have failed to support any but the strongest kind of human life. It supported these men well enough, however, for they soon began to use their tongues and brains in a manner that might have surprised a dispassionate observer.It is, perhaps, needless to say that they interlarded their conversation with fearful oaths, to which of course we can do no more than make passing reference.By degrees the conversation degenerated into disputation, for it is the manner of some men, when “in liquor,” to become intensely pugnacious as well as owlishly philosophical. The subject-matter of dispute may be varied, but the result is nearly always the same—a series of amazing convolutions of the brain, which is supposed to be profound reasoning, waxing hotter and hotter as the utterances grow thicker and thicker, and the tones louder and louder, until the culminating point is reached when the point which could not be proved by the mind is hammered home with the fist.To little Billy, who had been left in sole charge of the deck, and whose little mind had been strangely impressed on board the mission-ship, the words and sounds, to say nothing of the fumes, which proceeded from the cabin furnished much food for meditation. The babel of tongues soon became incessant, for three, if not four or five, of the speakers had become so impressed with the importance of their opinions, and so anxious to give their mates the benefit, that they all spoke at once. This of course necessitated much loud talking and gesticulation by all of them, which greatly helped, no doubt, to make their meaning clear. At least it did not render it less clear. As the din and riot increased so did the tendency to add fuel to the fire by deeper drinking, which resulted in fiercer quarrelling.At last one of the contending voices shouted so loud that the others for a few moments gave way, and the words became audible to the little listener on deck. The voice belonged to Gunter.“You said,” he shouted fiercely, “that I—”“No, I didn’t,” retorted Brock, breaking in with a rather premature contradiction.“Hear him out. N–nothin’ like fair play in ar–argiment,” said an extremely drunken voice.“Right you are,” cried another; “fire away, Gunter.”“You said,” resumed Gunter with a little more of argument in his tone, though still vehemently, “that I said—that—that—well, whativer it was I said, I’ll take my davy that I niver said anything o’ the sort.”“That’s a lie,” cried Brock.“You’re another,” shouted Gunter, and waved his hand contemptuously.Whether it was accident or design we know not, but Gunter’s hand knocked the pipe out of Brook’s mouth.To Billy’s ear the well-known sound of a blow followed, and he ran to look down into the cabin, where all was instantly in an uproar.“Choke him off,” cried David Bright. “Knock his brains out,” suggested Herring. Billy could not see well through the dense smoke, but apparently the more humane advice was followed, for, after a good deal of gasping, a heavy body was flung upon the floor.“All right, shove him into a bunk,” cried the Swab.At the same moment Ned Spivin sprang on deck, and, stretching himself with his arms extended upwards, drew a long breath of fresh air.“There, Billy,” he said, “I’ve had enough of it.”“Of grog, d’ye mean?” asked the boy.“No, but of the hell-upon-earth down there,” replied the young man.“Well, Ned, I should just think youhavehad enough o’ that,” said Billy, “an’ of grog too—though you don’t seem much screwed after all.”“I’m not screwed at all, Billy—not even half-seas-over. It’s more the smoke an’ fumes that have choked me than the grog. Come, lad, let’s go for’ard an’ git as far from it as we can.”The man and boy went to the bow of the vessel, and seated themselves near the heel of the bowsprit, where the sounds from the cabin reached them only as a faint murmur, and did not disturb the stillness of the night.And a day of quiet splendour it certainly was—the sea as calm as glass, insomuch that it reflected all the fleecy clouds that hung in the bright sky. Even the ocean-swell had gone to rest with just motion enough left to prove that the calm was not a “dead” one, but a slumber. All round, the numerous vessels of the Short Blue fleet floated in peaceful idleness. At every distance they lay, from a hundred yards to the far-off horizon.We say that they floated peacefully, but we speak only as to appearance, for there were other hells in the fleet, similar to that which we have described, and the soft sound of distant oars could be distinguished now and then as boats plied to and fro between their smacks and the Coper, fetching the deadly liquid with which these hells were set on fire.Other sounds there were, however, which fell pleasantly on the ears of the two listeners.“Psalm-singers,” said Billy.“They might be worse,” replied Ned. “What smack does it come from, think ’ee?”“TheBoy Jim, or theCephas—not sure which, for I can’t make out the voices. It might be from theSparrow, but that’s it close to us, and there could be no mistake about Jim Frost’s voice if he was to strike up.”“What! has Jim Frost hoisted the Bethel-flag?”“Ay, didn’t you see it flyin’ last Sunday for the first time?”“No, I didn’t,” returned Ned, “but I’m glad to hear it, for, though I’m not one o’ that set myself. I do like to see a man not ashamed to show his colours.”The flag to which they referred is supplied at half cost to the fleet by the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen—and is hoisted every Sabbath-day by those skippers in the fleet who, having made up their minds boldly to accept all the consequences of the step, have come out decidedly on the Lord’s side.While the two shipmates were conversing thus in low tones, enjoying the fresh air and the calm influences around them, the notes of an accordion came over the water in tones that were sweetened and mellowed by distance.“Ha! that’s Jim Frost now,” said Billy, in subdued excitement, while pleasure glittered in his eyes. “Oh! Ned, Idoeslike music. It makes my heart fit to bu’st sometimes, it does. An’ Jim plays that—that what’s ’is name—so beautiful!”“His accordion,” said Ned.“Yes—his accordium—”“No, Billy, not accordium, but accordion.”“Well, well—no matter. I don’t care a button what you calls it, so long as Jim plays it. Why, he’d make his fortin’ if he was to play that thing about the streets o’ Lun’on. Listen.”Jim Frost deserved all the praise that the enthusiastic boy bestowed on him, for, besides possessing a fine ear and taste for music, and having taught himself to play well, he had a magnificent tenor voice, and took great delight in singing the beautiful hymns which at that time had been introduced to the fleet. On this particular day he was joined by his crew, whose voices—more or less tuneful—came rolling over the water in a great volume of melody.“He’s got Singin’ Peter a-visitin’ him,” said Billy. “Don’t you hear him?”“Ay, I hear him, boy. There’s no mistakin’ Singin’ Peter’s voice. I’d know it among a thousand.”“If it’s hell here,” remarked Billy, with a great sigh of satisfaction, after the hymn was done, “it do seem like heaven over there. I only wish we had Jim Frost on board of us instead of that brute Gunter.”“Don’t be hard on Gunter, Billy,” said Ned. “We don’t know what he’s got to bear. Some men are born, you see, wi’ narves that are for ever screwin’ at ’em, an’ ticklin’ of ’em up; an’ other men have narves that always keep smoothin’ of ’em down. The last are the pleasantest to have to do with, no doubt, but the others ain’t quite so bad as they look sometimes. Their bark is worse than their bite.”“Hush!” exclaimed the boy, holding up a finger at the moment, for Jim Frost’s accordion again sent forth its rich tones in the prelude to a hymn. A few moments later and the tuneful voices came rolling towards them in that beautiful hymn, the chorus of which ends:—“We shall know each other better when the mists are rolled away.”When the last verse was sung little Billy found a tear struggling to get out of each eye, and a lump sticking in his throat, so he turned his head away to conceal them.“Ain’t it beautiful?” he said, when the lump had disappeared.“And ain’t it curious,” answered Ned, “that it should touch on what we was talkin’ about afore they began? P’r’aps we shall know John Gunter better ‘when the mists are rolled away.’”Billy shook his head dubiously. “I’m not so sure o’ that,” he said. “Anyhow, there’s a deal o’ mist to be rolled away before we can knowhimbetter.”“There’s a breeze comin’ up from the south’ard,” remarked Ned, who, to say truth, did not seem to care very much about getting to know his surly shipmate better; “we’ll have to get your father aboard soon.”“That won’t be an easy matter,” said Billy, and he was right, for when David Bright was set down with a friend, and a glass, and a pack of cards, it was very difficult to move him. He was, indeed, as fond of gambling as of drinking, and lost much of his hardly earned gains in that way. Billy, therefore, received little but abuse when he tried to induce him to return to his own vessel, but the freshing of the breeze, and a sudden lurch of the smack, which overturned his glass of grog into Gunter’s lap, induced him at last to go on deck.There the appearance of things had changed considerably. Clouds were beginning to obscure the bright sky, the breeze had effectually shattered the clear mirror of the sea, and a swell was beginning to roll theWhite Cloud, so that legs which would have found it difficult to steady their owners on solid land made sad work of their office on the heaving deck.“Haul up the boat,” cried Brock in a drivelling voice as he came on deck; “where are you steerin’ to? Let me take the helm.”He staggered toward the tiller as he spoke, but Dick Herring and one of his mates, seeing that he was quite unable to steer, tried to prevent him. Brock, however, had reached that stage of drunkenness in which men are apt to become particularly obstinate, and, being a powerful man, struggled violently to accomplish his purpose.“Let him have it,” said Herring at last. “He can’t do much damage.”When set free, the miserable man grasped the tiller and tried to steady himself. A lurch of the vessel, however, rendered his effort abortive. The tiller fell to leeward. Brock went headlong with it, stumbled over the side, and, before any one could stretch out a hand to prevent it, fell into the sea and sank.His comrades were apparently sobered in an instant. There was no need for the hurried order to jump into the boat alongside. Ned Spivin and Billy were in it with the painter cast off and the oars out in a couple of seconds. The boat of theWhite Cloudwas also launched with a speed, that only North Sea fishermen, perhaps, can accomplish, and both crews rowed about eagerly while the smack lay-to. But all without success. The unfortunate man was never more seen, and the visitors left the vessel in sobered silence, and rowed, without exchanging a word, to their own smack, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant on the port quarter.

Birds of a feather flock together, undoubtedly—at sea as well as on land. As surely as Johnston, and Moore, and Jim Frost, and such men, hung about the mission-ship—ready to go aboard and to have a little meeting when suitable calms occurred, so surely did David Bright, the Swab, and other like-minded men, find themselves in the neighbourhood of the Coper when there was nothing to be done in the way of fishing.

Two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, the Swab—whose proper name was Dick Herring, and who sailed his own smack, theWhite Cloud—found himself in the neighbourhood of the floating grog-shop.

“Get out the boat, Brock,” said Herring to his mate—who has already been introduced to the reader as Pimply Brock, and whose nose rendered any explanation of that name unnecessary; “take some fish, an’ get as much as you can for ’em.”

The Swab did not name what his mate was to procure in barter with the fish, neither did Brock ask. It was an old-established order, well understood.

Soon Brock and two hands were on their way to the floating “poison-shop,” as one of the men had named it. He was affectionately received there, and, ere long, returned to theWhite Cloudwith a supply of fire-water.

“You’re good at a bargain, Brock,” said his master, with an approving nod, tossing off a glass of the demon that held him as if in chains of steel—chains that no man could break. “I wish,” he added, looking round on the sea wistfully, “that some of our friends would come to join us in a spree.”

“So do I,” said Brock, slightly inflaming his nasal pimples, by pouring a glass of spirits down his throat.

There must be some strange, subtle sympathy between drunkards, for, at the very time these two men expressed their wish, the master of theEvening Starsaid to Gunter, “Get out the boat. I’ll go cruisin’.”

It must not be supposed that by this he meant to declare his intention of going off on a lengthened voyage in his little boat. David Bright only meant that, having observed through his telescope the little transaction between theWhite Cloudand the Coper, his intention was to pay that vessel a visit—to go carousing, or, as the North Sea smacksmen have it, “cruisin’.”

Gunter obeyed the order with satisfaction and alacrity.

“Jump in, Spivin, and you come too, Billy.”

“I say, father,” said the boy in a low voice, “are ye goin’ to drink wi’ the Swab after what ye heard aboard the mission smack?”

“You clap a stopper on your jaw an’ obey orders,” replied the skipper angrily.

Although full of light-hearted insolence, which his mates called cheek, Billy was by no means a rebellious boy. He knew, from sad experience, that when his father made up his mind to “go in for a drinking-bout,” the consequences were often deplorable, and fain would he have dissuaded him, but he also knew that to persist in opposing him would only make matters worse, and probably bring severe chastisement on himself. With an air of quiet gravity, therefore, that seemed very unnatural to him, he leaped into the boat and took an oar.

“What cheer, David?” said the Swab, offering his rugged hand when the former jumped on the deck of theWhite Cloud. “I thought you’d come.”

“You was right, Dick,” returned David, shaking the proffered hand.

“Come below, an’ wet your whistle. Bring your men too,” said Dick. “This is a new hand?” pointing to Ned.

“Ay, he’s noo, is Ned Spivin, but he can drink.”

“Come down, then, all of ’ee.”

Now, Ned Spivin was one of those yielding good-natured youths who find it impossible to resist what may be styled good-fellowship. If you had tried to force Ned Spivin, to order him, or to frighten him into any course, he would have laughed in your face and fought you if necessary; but if you tempted Ned to do evil by kindly tones and looks, he was powerless to resist.

“You’re right, skipper, I can drink—sometimes.” They all went below, leaving Billy on deck “to look after the boat,” as his father said, though, being made fast, the boat required no looking after.

Immediately the party in the little cabin had a glass round. Ere long it occurred to them that they might have another glass. Of course they did not require to be reminded of their pipes, and as nearly all the crew was in the little cabin, besides the visitors, the fumes from pipes and glasses soon brought the atmosphere to a condition that would have failed to support any but the strongest kind of human life. It supported these men well enough, however, for they soon began to use their tongues and brains in a manner that might have surprised a dispassionate observer.

It is, perhaps, needless to say that they interlarded their conversation with fearful oaths, to which of course we can do no more than make passing reference.

By degrees the conversation degenerated into disputation, for it is the manner of some men, when “in liquor,” to become intensely pugnacious as well as owlishly philosophical. The subject-matter of dispute may be varied, but the result is nearly always the same—a series of amazing convolutions of the brain, which is supposed to be profound reasoning, waxing hotter and hotter as the utterances grow thicker and thicker, and the tones louder and louder, until the culminating point is reached when the point which could not be proved by the mind is hammered home with the fist.

To little Billy, who had been left in sole charge of the deck, and whose little mind had been strangely impressed on board the mission-ship, the words and sounds, to say nothing of the fumes, which proceeded from the cabin furnished much food for meditation. The babel of tongues soon became incessant, for three, if not four or five, of the speakers had become so impressed with the importance of their opinions, and so anxious to give their mates the benefit, that they all spoke at once. This of course necessitated much loud talking and gesticulation by all of them, which greatly helped, no doubt, to make their meaning clear. At least it did not render it less clear. As the din and riot increased so did the tendency to add fuel to the fire by deeper drinking, which resulted in fiercer quarrelling.

At last one of the contending voices shouted so loud that the others for a few moments gave way, and the words became audible to the little listener on deck. The voice belonged to Gunter.

“You said,” he shouted fiercely, “that I—”

“No, I didn’t,” retorted Brock, breaking in with a rather premature contradiction.

“Hear him out. N–nothin’ like fair play in ar–argiment,” said an extremely drunken voice.

“Right you are,” cried another; “fire away, Gunter.”

“You said,” resumed Gunter with a little more of argument in his tone, though still vehemently, “that I said—that—that—well, whativer it was I said, I’ll take my davy that I niver said anything o’ the sort.”

“That’s a lie,” cried Brock.

“You’re another,” shouted Gunter, and waved his hand contemptuously.

Whether it was accident or design we know not, but Gunter’s hand knocked the pipe out of Brook’s mouth.

To Billy’s ear the well-known sound of a blow followed, and he ran to look down into the cabin, where all was instantly in an uproar.

“Choke him off,” cried David Bright. “Knock his brains out,” suggested Herring. Billy could not see well through the dense smoke, but apparently the more humane advice was followed, for, after a good deal of gasping, a heavy body was flung upon the floor.

“All right, shove him into a bunk,” cried the Swab.

At the same moment Ned Spivin sprang on deck, and, stretching himself with his arms extended upwards, drew a long breath of fresh air.

“There, Billy,” he said, “I’ve had enough of it.”

“Of grog, d’ye mean?” asked the boy.

“No, but of the hell-upon-earth down there,” replied the young man.

“Well, Ned, I should just think youhavehad enough o’ that,” said Billy, “an’ of grog too—though you don’t seem much screwed after all.”

“I’m not screwed at all, Billy—not even half-seas-over. It’s more the smoke an’ fumes that have choked me than the grog. Come, lad, let’s go for’ard an’ git as far from it as we can.”

The man and boy went to the bow of the vessel, and seated themselves near the heel of the bowsprit, where the sounds from the cabin reached them only as a faint murmur, and did not disturb the stillness of the night.

And a day of quiet splendour it certainly was—the sea as calm as glass, insomuch that it reflected all the fleecy clouds that hung in the bright sky. Even the ocean-swell had gone to rest with just motion enough left to prove that the calm was not a “dead” one, but a slumber. All round, the numerous vessels of the Short Blue fleet floated in peaceful idleness. At every distance they lay, from a hundred yards to the far-off horizon.

We say that they floated peacefully, but we speak only as to appearance, for there were other hells in the fleet, similar to that which we have described, and the soft sound of distant oars could be distinguished now and then as boats plied to and fro between their smacks and the Coper, fetching the deadly liquid with which these hells were set on fire.

Other sounds there were, however, which fell pleasantly on the ears of the two listeners.

“Psalm-singers,” said Billy.

“They might be worse,” replied Ned. “What smack does it come from, think ’ee?”

“TheBoy Jim, or theCephas—not sure which, for I can’t make out the voices. It might be from theSparrow, but that’s it close to us, and there could be no mistake about Jim Frost’s voice if he was to strike up.”

“What! has Jim Frost hoisted the Bethel-flag?”

“Ay, didn’t you see it flyin’ last Sunday for the first time?”

“No, I didn’t,” returned Ned, “but I’m glad to hear it, for, though I’m not one o’ that set myself. I do like to see a man not ashamed to show his colours.”

The flag to which they referred is supplied at half cost to the fleet by the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen—and is hoisted every Sabbath-day by those skippers in the fleet who, having made up their minds boldly to accept all the consequences of the step, have come out decidedly on the Lord’s side.

While the two shipmates were conversing thus in low tones, enjoying the fresh air and the calm influences around them, the notes of an accordion came over the water in tones that were sweetened and mellowed by distance.

“Ha! that’s Jim Frost now,” said Billy, in subdued excitement, while pleasure glittered in his eyes. “Oh! Ned, Idoeslike music. It makes my heart fit to bu’st sometimes, it does. An’ Jim plays that—that what’s ’is name—so beautiful!”

“His accordion,” said Ned.

“Yes—his accordium—”

“No, Billy, not accordium, but accordion.”

“Well, well—no matter. I don’t care a button what you calls it, so long as Jim plays it. Why, he’d make his fortin’ if he was to play that thing about the streets o’ Lun’on. Listen.”

Jim Frost deserved all the praise that the enthusiastic boy bestowed on him, for, besides possessing a fine ear and taste for music, and having taught himself to play well, he had a magnificent tenor voice, and took great delight in singing the beautiful hymns which at that time had been introduced to the fleet. On this particular day he was joined by his crew, whose voices—more or less tuneful—came rolling over the water in a great volume of melody.

“He’s got Singin’ Peter a-visitin’ him,” said Billy. “Don’t you hear him?”

“Ay, I hear him, boy. There’s no mistakin’ Singin’ Peter’s voice. I’d know it among a thousand.”

“If it’s hell here,” remarked Billy, with a great sigh of satisfaction, after the hymn was done, “it do seem like heaven over there. I only wish we had Jim Frost on board of us instead of that brute Gunter.”

“Don’t be hard on Gunter, Billy,” said Ned. “We don’t know what he’s got to bear. Some men are born, you see, wi’ narves that are for ever screwin’ at ’em, an’ ticklin’ of ’em up; an’ other men have narves that always keep smoothin’ of ’em down. The last are the pleasantest to have to do with, no doubt, but the others ain’t quite so bad as they look sometimes. Their bark is worse than their bite.”

“Hush!” exclaimed the boy, holding up a finger at the moment, for Jim Frost’s accordion again sent forth its rich tones in the prelude to a hymn. A few moments later and the tuneful voices came rolling towards them in that beautiful hymn, the chorus of which ends:—

“We shall know each other better when the mists are rolled away.”

“We shall know each other better when the mists are rolled away.”

When the last verse was sung little Billy found a tear struggling to get out of each eye, and a lump sticking in his throat, so he turned his head away to conceal them.

“Ain’t it beautiful?” he said, when the lump had disappeared.

“And ain’t it curious,” answered Ned, “that it should touch on what we was talkin’ about afore they began? P’r’aps we shall know John Gunter better ‘when the mists are rolled away.’”

Billy shook his head dubiously. “I’m not so sure o’ that,” he said. “Anyhow, there’s a deal o’ mist to be rolled away before we can knowhimbetter.”

“There’s a breeze comin’ up from the south’ard,” remarked Ned, who, to say truth, did not seem to care very much about getting to know his surly shipmate better; “we’ll have to get your father aboard soon.”

“That won’t be an easy matter,” said Billy, and he was right, for when David Bright was set down with a friend, and a glass, and a pack of cards, it was very difficult to move him. He was, indeed, as fond of gambling as of drinking, and lost much of his hardly earned gains in that way. Billy, therefore, received little but abuse when he tried to induce him to return to his own vessel, but the freshing of the breeze, and a sudden lurch of the smack, which overturned his glass of grog into Gunter’s lap, induced him at last to go on deck.

There the appearance of things had changed considerably. Clouds were beginning to obscure the bright sky, the breeze had effectually shattered the clear mirror of the sea, and a swell was beginning to roll theWhite Cloud, so that legs which would have found it difficult to steady their owners on solid land made sad work of their office on the heaving deck.

“Haul up the boat,” cried Brock in a drivelling voice as he came on deck; “where are you steerin’ to? Let me take the helm.”

He staggered toward the tiller as he spoke, but Dick Herring and one of his mates, seeing that he was quite unable to steer, tried to prevent him. Brock, however, had reached that stage of drunkenness in which men are apt to become particularly obstinate, and, being a powerful man, struggled violently to accomplish his purpose.

“Let him have it,” said Herring at last. “He can’t do much damage.”

When set free, the miserable man grasped the tiller and tried to steady himself. A lurch of the vessel, however, rendered his effort abortive. The tiller fell to leeward. Brock went headlong with it, stumbled over the side, and, before any one could stretch out a hand to prevent it, fell into the sea and sank.

His comrades were apparently sobered in an instant. There was no need for the hurried order to jump into the boat alongside. Ned Spivin and Billy were in it with the painter cast off and the oars out in a couple of seconds. The boat of theWhite Cloudwas also launched with a speed, that only North Sea fishermen, perhaps, can accomplish, and both crews rowed about eagerly while the smack lay-to. But all without success. The unfortunate man was never more seen, and the visitors left the vessel in sobered silence, and rowed, without exchanging a word, to their own smack, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant on the port quarter.

Chapter Eleven.Ruth and Captain Bream take to Scheming.Returning to London, we will follow Captain Bream, who, one fine morning, walked up to Mrs Dotropy’s mansion at the west end, and applied the knocker vigorously.“Is Miss Ruth at home?”Yes, Miss Ruth was at home, and would he walk in.He was ushered into the library of the mansion; that room in which the Dotropy ancestors, who could not find space among their kindred in the dining-room, held, so to speak, an overflow meeting to themselves. Ruth soon joined him.“I’m so glad to see you, Captain Bream,” she said, shaking with much fervency the hand held out to her. “Sit down. It is so kind of you to come at once to help me in my little schemes—though I have not seen you to explain why I asked you—but there, I was almost off on another subject before I had begun the one I wish to consult you about. And, do you know, captain,” added Ruth, with a slightly perplexed look, “I find scheming a very troublesome business!”“I should think you did, Miss Ruth, and it seems to me that it’s always better to go straight at what you’ve got to do without scheming—all fair an’ aboveboard. Excuse me, my dear, but an old man who has sailed your lamented father’s ships for over thirty years, and known you since you were a baby, may be allowed to say he’s surprised thatyoushould take to scheming.”“An old man who has not only sailed my dear father’s ships for over thirty years,” said Ruth, “but has brought me toys from all parts of the world, and has, besides, been as true to the family as the needle to the pole—or truer, if all be true that is said of needles—may say to my father’s daughter exactly what he pleases without the smallest chance of giving offence. But, let me tell you, sir, that you are a foolish old man, and much too quick in forming your opinions. Scheming is both justifiable and honourable at times—as I shall soon convince you.”A beaming smile overspread the captain’s visage as he said—“Very well, Miss Ruth. Go on.”“But before I go on tell me how are the Miss Seawards?”“Quite well, I believe. At least I have no reason to think otherwise. Rather thinnish if anything, but filled out wonderfully since I first saw ’em.”“That’s good,” said Ruth, laughing. “And now, do you know why I asked you to go and lodge with them?”“Well, I always thought it was because you knew I wanted a lodgin’, though I confess it has puzzled me to make out why you wanted me to come to such an out-o’-the-way part o’ the city; and, to tell you the truth, itisrather inconvenient, but your letter was so urgent, Miss Ruth, that I knew you must have some good reason, and as your dear father’s daughter has a right to command me, I obeyed, as you know, without question.”“You are a good old man,” returned Ruth, laying her hand on the brown fist of the captain and looking up in his face with the same loving girlish look that she had bestowed on him many a time in years past on his frequent visits with foreign toys, “and I shall test your goodness a good deal before I have done with you.”“Test away, Miss Ruth. You’ll find I can stand a good deal of testin’. I haven’t sailed the salt sea for forty years for nothing.”“Well then,” said Ruth, looking slightly perplexed again. “What would you do, Captain Bream, if you knew of two ladies who were unable to work, or to find suitable work, and so poor as to be literally starving—what would you do?”“Give ’em money, of course.”“But suppose that, owing to some delicacy of feeling, or, perhaps, some sort of mistaken pride, they would not accept money, and flushed very much and felt hurt if you ventured to offer it to them?”“Why, then, I’d send ’em victuals.”“But suppose,” continued Ruth, “that there were great difficulties in the way of doing that, and they felt as much objection to receive gratuitous victuals as money, what would you do then? you would not let them starve, would you?”“Of course not,” returned the captain, promptly. “If it fairly came to that I’d be apt to treat ’em as nurses do obstinate infants and castor oil. I’d take ’em on my knee, force open their mouths, and shove the victuals down their throats.”Ruth burst into a merry little laugh at this.“But,” said she, “don’t you think that before proceeding to such forcible treatment you might scheme a little to get them to take it willingly, as nurses sometimes disguise the taste of the oil with coffee or milk?”“Well, youmightscheme a little on that sort of principle, Miss Ruth; but in ordinary cases I prefer straightforward plans myself.”“Then why, let me ask,” said Ruth with some severity in her look, “do you dare to scheme with the wind as you and all sailors do when it is dead against you?”“You’re becomin’ too deep for me now, my dear; what d’ee mean?”“When the wind blows dead against you, say from the north,” replied Ruth, “don’t you begin your naughty—at least your nautical—scheming at once? Don’t you lay your course to the nor’-west and pretend you are going in that direction, and then don’t you soon tack about—isn’t that what you call it—and steer nor’-east, pretending that you are goingthatway, when all the time you are wanting to go due north? What do you call that, sir, if it is not scheming to circumvent the wind?”While she was speaking, Captain Bream’s smile expanded and broke forth at last in one of his bass broadsides of laughter, which gave Ruth great delight for she had, as a little girl, enjoyed these thunderous laughs excessively, and her taste for them had not departed.“Well, my dear,” said her visitor, “I admit that there are some sorts o’ fair-an’-above-board schemin’ which ain’t dishonourable, or unworthy of a British sailor.”“Very good,” returned Ruth; “then listen while I reveal some of my recent scheming. Some time ago I found out that two very dear friends of mine—who were in delicate health and quite unable to work hard, as well as being unable to find any kind of work whatever—were on the point of starvation. They would not accept money. I schemed a little to get them to earn money, but it was not easy, and the result was not a sufficiently permanent income. At last I thought I would try to get them a boarder—a somewhat rich boarder, whose powerful appetite and large meals might leave some crumbs for—”“You don’t mean to tell me, Miss Ruth,” interrupted the captain, in amazement, “that the Miss Seawards were in a state of starvation when I went to ’em!”“Indeed I do,” replied Ruth; “at least as nearly in that state as was compatible with existence.”“Well, well,” said the captain, “no wonder they looked so thin; and no wonder they’re beginnin’ to be a little better in flesh now, wi’ the legs o’ mutton an’ chops an’ such like things that I get in to take the edge off my appetite—which, as you justly observe, Miss Ruth, is not a bad one. I’m glad you’ve told me this, however, for I’ll go in for extra heavy feedin’ now.”“That’s right. But stay, Captain Bream, I have not nearly done with my scheming yet. And I shall still want you to help me.”“Go ahead, my dear. I’m your man, for, to tell ’ee the downright truth, I’ve taken a great fancy to these two sisters, an’ would steer a long way out o’ my course to help ’em.”“I knew you would,” returned Ruth with a little look of triumph. “Whoever comes in contact with these dear friends of mine thinks exactly as you do. Now, their health is not nearly as good as it ought to be, so I want them to have a change of air. You see, the poor little street in which they live is not the freshest in London.”“Exactly so. They want a trip to Brighton or Broadstairs or Ramsgate, and a whiff of fresh sea-air, eh?” said the captain with a look of satisfaction.“No not to these places,” said Ruth; “I thought of Yarmouth.”“Well, Yarmouth—just as good. Any part o’ the coast will do to blow the London cobwebs out o’ their brains—say Yarmouth.”“Very good, captain, but my difficulty is, how to manage it.”“Nothing easier, Miss Ruth. I will take an afternoon train, run down, hire a lodgin’, come up to-morrow, an’ carry the Miss Seawards off wi’ me.”“But suppose they won’t go?”“But they must go. I’m quite able to take up one under each arm an’ carry ’em off by force if they won’t.”“I would highly approve of that method, captain, if it were possible, but I’m afraid such things are not permitted in this free country. No, if done at all, the thing must be gone about with a little more care and delicacy.”“Well then, I’ll go down an’ take a lodgin’, an’ write up and ask them to pay me a visit for the benefit of their health.”Ruth shook her pretty little head and frowned.“Won’t do,” she said. “I know them too well. They’re so unselfish that they won’t budge a step to benefit themselves.”“H’m! I see, Miss Ruth, we want a little scheming here—eh? Well, I’ll manage it. You leave this little matter in my hands, and see if I don’t get ’em to visit Yarmouth, by hook or by crook. By the way, Miss Ruth, was it one o’ your little schemes, givin’ ’em these mitts and comforters to make?”“Of course it was,” Ruth replied with a laugh and a blush. “You see these things are really very much wanted by the North sea fishermen, and a great many benevolent women spend much time in knitting for them—and not only women, but also boys.”“Boys!” echoed the captain in surprise—“boys knit mitts and comforters?”“Yes. I assure you that the telegraph boys of the Notting Hill branch of the Post-office have actually spent some of their spare time in doing this work.”“I’ll look upon telegraph boys with more respect ever after this,” said the captain with emphasis.“Well, as I was saying,” continued Ruth, “Mamma bought far more worsted for me than I could ever find time to work up into mitts or comforters, so I have employed the Miss Seawards to do it for me—at so much a pair. But they don’t know it’s for me, so be careful not to—”“Yes, yes, I see—more scheming. Well, I’ll take care not to blab.”“And I sent the worsted and arranged the transaction through such a dear pretty little fisher-boy from Yarmouth. But perhaps you have seen him at your lodging.”“No, I haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard a good deal about him. The ladies seem to be as much impressed with his sweetness and prettiness as yourself, Miss Ruth. For my part, I’m not over fond o’ sweet pretty boys. I prefer ’em rough-cast or even ugly, so long’s they’re smart an’ willin’.”“Oh! but you have no idea what a smart and willing boy he is,” said Ruth, firing up in defence of her little friend. “I assure you he is most willing and intelligent, and I do believe he would scratch his face and twist his little nose into a screw if by so doing he could make himself ugly, for I have observed that he is terribly annoyed when people call him pretty—as they often foolishly do.”“Well, I’ll be off now on this little business,” said the captain, rising and smoothing his hat with his cuff. “But—but—Miss Ruth—excuse me, you said something about sending the Miss Seawards arichlodger when you sent me. How d’ee know I’m rich?”“Well, I only guessed it,” returned Ruth with a laugh, “and, you know, more than once you have hinted to me that you had got on very well—that God had prospered you—I think these were the words you have sometimes used.”“These are the words I would always use,” returned the captain. “The prosperity that has attended me through life I distinctly recognise at being the result of God’s will, not of my wisdom. Don’t we see that the cleverest of men sometimes fail, and, on the other hand, the most stupid fellows sometimes succeed? It is God that setteth up one and putteth down another.”“I’m glad to hear that you think so clearly on this point, captain, though I did not know it before. It is another bond between us. However, if I have been wrong in supposing you to be rich, I—”“Nay, I did not deny it, Miss Ruth, but it does not follow that a man means to say he is rich when he says that he has got on very well. However, my dear, I don’t mind tellin’ you, as a secret that Iamrich—as rich, that is, as there’s any use to be, an’ far richer than I deserve to be. You must know,” continued the captain, sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, “that your dear father used to allow me to put my savin’s into his hands for investment, and the investments succeeded so well that at last I found myself in possession of five hundred a year!”Captain Bream said this with much deliberation and an emphatic nod for each word, while he gazed solemnly in Ruth’s face. “Not a bad fortune for an old bachelor, eh? Then,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “when I was wrecked, two years ago in Australia, I took a fancy to have a look at the gold diggin’s, so off I went to Bendigo, and I set to work diggin’ for the mere fun o’ the thing, and the very first day I turned up a nugget as big as my fist and two of the same sort the day after, an’ then a lot o’ little ones; in fact I had got hold of a first-rate claim, an’ when I had dug away for a month or so I put it all in a big chest, sold the claim, and came straight home, bringin’ the chest with me. I have it now, up in my cabin yonder. It well-nigh broke my back gittin’ it up the stair, though my back ain’t a weak one.”“And how much is the gold worth?” eagerly asked Ruth, who had listened with a sympathetic expression on her face.“That’s more than I can tell. I scarce know how to go about convertin’ it into cash; but I’m in no hurry. Now mind, Miss Ruth, not a word o’ this to any livin’ soul. Not even to your own mother, for she ain’tmymother, d’ee see, an’ has no right to know it. In fact I’ve never told it to any one till this day, for I have no one in the wide world to care about it. Once, indeed, I had—”He stopped short.“Ah! you are thinking of your sister?” said the sympathetic Ruth; “the sister whom you once told me about long ago.”“Yes, Miss Ruth, Iwasthinkin’ o’ her; but—” He stopped again.“Do tell me about her,” said Ruth, earnestly. “Has she been long dead?”“Dead! my dear. I didn’t say she was dead, an’ yet it ain’t unlikely she is, for it’s long, long since I heard of her. There’s not much to tell about her after all,” said the captain, sadly. “But she was a dear sweet little girl at the time—just turned eighteen—an’ very fond o’ me. We had no parents living, an’ no kindred except one old aunt, with whom my sister lived. I was away at the time on a long voyage, and had to take a cargo from the East Indies to China before returnin’ home. At Hongkong I fell ill, an’ was laid up there for months. Altogether a good many troubles came on me at that time—though they were blessed troubles to me, for they ended in the saving o’ my soul through my eyes bein’ opened to see my sins and Jesus Christ as my Saviour. It was three years before I set foot in England again, and when I got back I found that my old aunt was dead, and that my dear sister had married a seaman and gone away—no one knew where.”“And you’ve never heard of her since?” asked Ruth.“Never.”“And don’t know who she married?”“Know nothin’ more about her, my dear, than I’ve told ’ee. Good-bye now, Miss Ruth. I must look sharp about this business of yours.”He showed such evident disinclination to continue the painful subject, that Ruth forbore to press it, and they parted to prosecute their respective schemes.

Returning to London, we will follow Captain Bream, who, one fine morning, walked up to Mrs Dotropy’s mansion at the west end, and applied the knocker vigorously.

“Is Miss Ruth at home?”

Yes, Miss Ruth was at home, and would he walk in.

He was ushered into the library of the mansion; that room in which the Dotropy ancestors, who could not find space among their kindred in the dining-room, held, so to speak, an overflow meeting to themselves. Ruth soon joined him.

“I’m so glad to see you, Captain Bream,” she said, shaking with much fervency the hand held out to her. “Sit down. It is so kind of you to come at once to help me in my little schemes—though I have not seen you to explain why I asked you—but there, I was almost off on another subject before I had begun the one I wish to consult you about. And, do you know, captain,” added Ruth, with a slightly perplexed look, “I find scheming a very troublesome business!”

“I should think you did, Miss Ruth, and it seems to me that it’s always better to go straight at what you’ve got to do without scheming—all fair an’ aboveboard. Excuse me, my dear, but an old man who has sailed your lamented father’s ships for over thirty years, and known you since you were a baby, may be allowed to say he’s surprised thatyoushould take to scheming.”

“An old man who has not only sailed my dear father’s ships for over thirty years,” said Ruth, “but has brought me toys from all parts of the world, and has, besides, been as true to the family as the needle to the pole—or truer, if all be true that is said of needles—may say to my father’s daughter exactly what he pleases without the smallest chance of giving offence. But, let me tell you, sir, that you are a foolish old man, and much too quick in forming your opinions. Scheming is both justifiable and honourable at times—as I shall soon convince you.”

A beaming smile overspread the captain’s visage as he said—

“Very well, Miss Ruth. Go on.”

“But before I go on tell me how are the Miss Seawards?”

“Quite well, I believe. At least I have no reason to think otherwise. Rather thinnish if anything, but filled out wonderfully since I first saw ’em.”

“That’s good,” said Ruth, laughing. “And now, do you know why I asked you to go and lodge with them?”

“Well, I always thought it was because you knew I wanted a lodgin’, though I confess it has puzzled me to make out why you wanted me to come to such an out-o’-the-way part o’ the city; and, to tell you the truth, itisrather inconvenient, but your letter was so urgent, Miss Ruth, that I knew you must have some good reason, and as your dear father’s daughter has a right to command me, I obeyed, as you know, without question.”

“You are a good old man,” returned Ruth, laying her hand on the brown fist of the captain and looking up in his face with the same loving girlish look that she had bestowed on him many a time in years past on his frequent visits with foreign toys, “and I shall test your goodness a good deal before I have done with you.”

“Test away, Miss Ruth. You’ll find I can stand a good deal of testin’. I haven’t sailed the salt sea for forty years for nothing.”

“Well then,” said Ruth, looking slightly perplexed again. “What would you do, Captain Bream, if you knew of two ladies who were unable to work, or to find suitable work, and so poor as to be literally starving—what would you do?”

“Give ’em money, of course.”

“But suppose that, owing to some delicacy of feeling, or, perhaps, some sort of mistaken pride, they would not accept money, and flushed very much and felt hurt if you ventured to offer it to them?”

“Why, then, I’d send ’em victuals.”

“But suppose,” continued Ruth, “that there were great difficulties in the way of doing that, and they felt as much objection to receive gratuitous victuals as money, what would you do then? you would not let them starve, would you?”

“Of course not,” returned the captain, promptly. “If it fairly came to that I’d be apt to treat ’em as nurses do obstinate infants and castor oil. I’d take ’em on my knee, force open their mouths, and shove the victuals down their throats.”

Ruth burst into a merry little laugh at this.

“But,” said she, “don’t you think that before proceeding to such forcible treatment you might scheme a little to get them to take it willingly, as nurses sometimes disguise the taste of the oil with coffee or milk?”

“Well, youmightscheme a little on that sort of principle, Miss Ruth; but in ordinary cases I prefer straightforward plans myself.”

“Then why, let me ask,” said Ruth with some severity in her look, “do you dare to scheme with the wind as you and all sailors do when it is dead against you?”

“You’re becomin’ too deep for me now, my dear; what d’ee mean?”

“When the wind blows dead against you, say from the north,” replied Ruth, “don’t you begin your naughty—at least your nautical—scheming at once? Don’t you lay your course to the nor’-west and pretend you are going in that direction, and then don’t you soon tack about—isn’t that what you call it—and steer nor’-east, pretending that you are goingthatway, when all the time you are wanting to go due north? What do you call that, sir, if it is not scheming to circumvent the wind?”

While she was speaking, Captain Bream’s smile expanded and broke forth at last in one of his bass broadsides of laughter, which gave Ruth great delight for she had, as a little girl, enjoyed these thunderous laughs excessively, and her taste for them had not departed.

“Well, my dear,” said her visitor, “I admit that there are some sorts o’ fair-an’-above-board schemin’ which ain’t dishonourable, or unworthy of a British sailor.”

“Very good,” returned Ruth; “then listen while I reveal some of my recent scheming. Some time ago I found out that two very dear friends of mine—who were in delicate health and quite unable to work hard, as well as being unable to find any kind of work whatever—were on the point of starvation. They would not accept money. I schemed a little to get them to earn money, but it was not easy, and the result was not a sufficiently permanent income. At last I thought I would try to get them a boarder—a somewhat rich boarder, whose powerful appetite and large meals might leave some crumbs for—”

“You don’t mean to tell me, Miss Ruth,” interrupted the captain, in amazement, “that the Miss Seawards were in a state of starvation when I went to ’em!”

“Indeed I do,” replied Ruth; “at least as nearly in that state as was compatible with existence.”

“Well, well,” said the captain, “no wonder they looked so thin; and no wonder they’re beginnin’ to be a little better in flesh now, wi’ the legs o’ mutton an’ chops an’ such like things that I get in to take the edge off my appetite—which, as you justly observe, Miss Ruth, is not a bad one. I’m glad you’ve told me this, however, for I’ll go in for extra heavy feedin’ now.”

“That’s right. But stay, Captain Bream, I have not nearly done with my scheming yet. And I shall still want you to help me.”

“Go ahead, my dear. I’m your man, for, to tell ’ee the downright truth, I’ve taken a great fancy to these two sisters, an’ would steer a long way out o’ my course to help ’em.”

“I knew you would,” returned Ruth with a little look of triumph. “Whoever comes in contact with these dear friends of mine thinks exactly as you do. Now, their health is not nearly as good as it ought to be, so I want them to have a change of air. You see, the poor little street in which they live is not the freshest in London.”

“Exactly so. They want a trip to Brighton or Broadstairs or Ramsgate, and a whiff of fresh sea-air, eh?” said the captain with a look of satisfaction.

“No not to these places,” said Ruth; “I thought of Yarmouth.”

“Well, Yarmouth—just as good. Any part o’ the coast will do to blow the London cobwebs out o’ their brains—say Yarmouth.”

“Very good, captain, but my difficulty is, how to manage it.”

“Nothing easier, Miss Ruth. I will take an afternoon train, run down, hire a lodgin’, come up to-morrow, an’ carry the Miss Seawards off wi’ me.”

“But suppose they won’t go?”

“But they must go. I’m quite able to take up one under each arm an’ carry ’em off by force if they won’t.”

“I would highly approve of that method, captain, if it were possible, but I’m afraid such things are not permitted in this free country. No, if done at all, the thing must be gone about with a little more care and delicacy.”

“Well then, I’ll go down an’ take a lodgin’, an’ write up and ask them to pay me a visit for the benefit of their health.”

Ruth shook her pretty little head and frowned.

“Won’t do,” she said. “I know them too well. They’re so unselfish that they won’t budge a step to benefit themselves.”

“H’m! I see, Miss Ruth, we want a little scheming here—eh? Well, I’ll manage it. You leave this little matter in my hands, and see if I don’t get ’em to visit Yarmouth, by hook or by crook. By the way, Miss Ruth, was it one o’ your little schemes, givin’ ’em these mitts and comforters to make?”

“Of course it was,” Ruth replied with a laugh and a blush. “You see these things are really very much wanted by the North sea fishermen, and a great many benevolent women spend much time in knitting for them—and not only women, but also boys.”

“Boys!” echoed the captain in surprise—“boys knit mitts and comforters?”

“Yes. I assure you that the telegraph boys of the Notting Hill branch of the Post-office have actually spent some of their spare time in doing this work.”

“I’ll look upon telegraph boys with more respect ever after this,” said the captain with emphasis.

“Well, as I was saying,” continued Ruth, “Mamma bought far more worsted for me than I could ever find time to work up into mitts or comforters, so I have employed the Miss Seawards to do it for me—at so much a pair. But they don’t know it’s for me, so be careful not to—”

“Yes, yes, I see—more scheming. Well, I’ll take care not to blab.”

“And I sent the worsted and arranged the transaction through such a dear pretty little fisher-boy from Yarmouth. But perhaps you have seen him at your lodging.”

“No, I haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard a good deal about him. The ladies seem to be as much impressed with his sweetness and prettiness as yourself, Miss Ruth. For my part, I’m not over fond o’ sweet pretty boys. I prefer ’em rough-cast or even ugly, so long’s they’re smart an’ willin’.”

“Oh! but you have no idea what a smart and willing boy he is,” said Ruth, firing up in defence of her little friend. “I assure you he is most willing and intelligent, and I do believe he would scratch his face and twist his little nose into a screw if by so doing he could make himself ugly, for I have observed that he is terribly annoyed when people call him pretty—as they often foolishly do.”

“Well, I’ll be off now on this little business,” said the captain, rising and smoothing his hat with his cuff. “But—but—Miss Ruth—excuse me, you said something about sending the Miss Seawards arichlodger when you sent me. How d’ee know I’m rich?”

“Well, I only guessed it,” returned Ruth with a laugh, “and, you know, more than once you have hinted to me that you had got on very well—that God had prospered you—I think these were the words you have sometimes used.”

“These are the words I would always use,” returned the captain. “The prosperity that has attended me through life I distinctly recognise at being the result of God’s will, not of my wisdom. Don’t we see that the cleverest of men sometimes fail, and, on the other hand, the most stupid fellows sometimes succeed? It is God that setteth up one and putteth down another.”

“I’m glad to hear that you think so clearly on this point, captain, though I did not know it before. It is another bond between us. However, if I have been wrong in supposing you to be rich, I—”

“Nay, I did not deny it, Miss Ruth, but it does not follow that a man means to say he is rich when he says that he has got on very well. However, my dear, I don’t mind tellin’ you, as a secret that Iamrich—as rich, that is, as there’s any use to be, an’ far richer than I deserve to be. You must know,” continued the captain, sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, “that your dear father used to allow me to put my savin’s into his hands for investment, and the investments succeeded so well that at last I found myself in possession of five hundred a year!”

Captain Bream said this with much deliberation and an emphatic nod for each word, while he gazed solemnly in Ruth’s face. “Not a bad fortune for an old bachelor, eh? Then,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “when I was wrecked, two years ago in Australia, I took a fancy to have a look at the gold diggin’s, so off I went to Bendigo, and I set to work diggin’ for the mere fun o’ the thing, and the very first day I turned up a nugget as big as my fist and two of the same sort the day after, an’ then a lot o’ little ones; in fact I had got hold of a first-rate claim, an’ when I had dug away for a month or so I put it all in a big chest, sold the claim, and came straight home, bringin’ the chest with me. I have it now, up in my cabin yonder. It well-nigh broke my back gittin’ it up the stair, though my back ain’t a weak one.”

“And how much is the gold worth?” eagerly asked Ruth, who had listened with a sympathetic expression on her face.

“That’s more than I can tell. I scarce know how to go about convertin’ it into cash; but I’m in no hurry. Now mind, Miss Ruth, not a word o’ this to any livin’ soul. Not even to your own mother, for she ain’tmymother, d’ee see, an’ has no right to know it. In fact I’ve never told it to any one till this day, for I have no one in the wide world to care about it. Once, indeed, I had—”

He stopped short.

“Ah! you are thinking of your sister?” said the sympathetic Ruth; “the sister whom you once told me about long ago.”

“Yes, Miss Ruth, Iwasthinkin’ o’ her; but—” He stopped again.

“Do tell me about her,” said Ruth, earnestly. “Has she been long dead?”

“Dead! my dear. I didn’t say she was dead, an’ yet it ain’t unlikely she is, for it’s long, long since I heard of her. There’s not much to tell about her after all,” said the captain, sadly. “But she was a dear sweet little girl at the time—just turned eighteen—an’ very fond o’ me. We had no parents living, an’ no kindred except one old aunt, with whom my sister lived. I was away at the time on a long voyage, and had to take a cargo from the East Indies to China before returnin’ home. At Hongkong I fell ill, an’ was laid up there for months. Altogether a good many troubles came on me at that time—though they were blessed troubles to me, for they ended in the saving o’ my soul through my eyes bein’ opened to see my sins and Jesus Christ as my Saviour. It was three years before I set foot in England again, and when I got back I found that my old aunt was dead, and that my dear sister had married a seaman and gone away—no one knew where.”

“And you’ve never heard of her since?” asked Ruth.

“Never.”

“And don’t know who she married?”

“Know nothin’ more about her, my dear, than I’ve told ’ee. Good-bye now, Miss Ruth. I must look sharp about this business of yours.”

He showed such evident disinclination to continue the painful subject, that Ruth forbore to press it, and they parted to prosecute their respective schemes.

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