Kitobni o'qish: «The Young Trawler», sahifa 12

Chapter Seventeen.
Converse in the Cabin—The Tempter again—An Accident

One night, some days after the incident just recorded, the Evening Star shot her gear, in obedience to orders, on the port hand, and proceeded, with the rest of the fleet, to give a pressing invitation to those fish which inhabited that particular shoal in the North Sea known to fishermen by the name of Skimlico. The name, when properly spelt, runs thus: Schiermonik-oog. But our fishermen, with a happy disregard of orthography, and, perhaps, with an eye to that brevity which is said to be the soul of wit, prefer to call it Skimlico.

When the gear was down the men retired to their little cabin to refresh themselves with a meal and a pipe.

The skipper, who had recovered neither his spirits nor his self-respect since his recent fall, preferred to remain on deck. Billy, who had never lost either, joined the revellers below—with all the more satisfaction that Evan, the rescued mate of the Sparrow, was with them.

“Out o’ the road, Zulu,” cried Ned Spivin, pushing the cook aside, and sitting down close to the fire, “I’ll have a bit o’ fish.”

He stuck on the end of his knife a piece of sole, out of which the life had barely departed, and held it up before the fire to roast.

“Hand me a mug o’ tea, an’ a biscuit, Zulu,” said Joe Davidson; “fill it up, boy. I like good measure.”

“Are them taters ready?” asked Luke Trevor. “An’ the plum-duff? You haven’t got any for us to-day, have ’ee?”

“Shut up!” cried Zulu. “How many hands you tink I’ve got?”

“Eight at the very least,” said Spivin, “an’ I can prove it.”

“How you do dat?” asked Zulu, opening up his great eyes.

“Easy. Hold out your paws. Isn’t that one hand?” (pointing to his left.)

“Yes.”

“An’ doesn’t that make two hands?” (pointing to his right.)

“Yes.”

“Well, ain’t one hand and two hands equal to three hands, you booby? an’ don’t you know that monkeys have hands instead o’ feet? So as you’re a monkey, that’s six hands. And haven’t you a handsome face, an’ a handsome figgur, which is eight, you grampus! Come, use one o’ your many hands an’ pass the biscuits.”

“Sartinly!” said Zulu, at once kicking a small bit of biscuit which Spivin still held in his hand to the other end of the cabin, where it fell into the lap of Trevor, who thanked Zulu kindly, and ate it up.

“Oh! forgib me, massa,” cried Zulu, in mock repentance. “I’s nebber nebber do it again! But you know you ax me to use one o’ my hands to pass de biskit. Well, I ’bey orders. I use ’im, an’ pass de biskit on to Luke.”

“Come, Ned, Zulu’s more than a match for you there. Let him alone,” cried Joe Davidson, “and don’t be so stingy with your sugar, Zulu. Here, fill up again.”

The conversation at this point became what is sometimes styled general, but was interrupted now and then, as one and another of the men dropped into the anecdotal tone, and thus secured undivided attention for a longer or shorter space according to his powers in story-telling.

“What a appetite you’ve got, Luke,” said Joe, as he helped his comrade to a second large plateful of salt beef, potatoes, and duff.

“Hold on, Joe! I’ve a pretty fair appetite, but am not quite up to that.”

“Nonsense, Luke, you’ve only got to try. A man has no notion what ’e can do till ’e tries.”

“Ah, that’s true,” said Ned Spivin, checking a lump of salt beef on the end of his clasp-knife half way to his mouth; “did I ever tell ’ee, lads, that little hanecdote about a man we called Glutton, he was such an awful eater?”

“No, never heard on it,” said several voices.

“Well, then, this is ’ow it was,” said Spivin, clearing his voice. “You must know, I was once in Callyforny, where all the goold comes from. Me an’ most o’ my mates had runned away from our ship to the diggin’s, you see, which of course none on us would have thought of doin’—oh dear no—if it hadn’t bin that the skipper runned away too; so it was no use for us to stop behind, d’ee see? Well, we was diggin’ one day, in a place where there was a lot o’ red Injins—not steam engines, you know, but the sort o’ niggers what lives out there. One o’ them Injins was named Glutton—he was such an awful eater—and one o’ my mates, whose name was Samson, bet a bag o’ goold-dust, that he’d make the glutton eat till he bu’sted. I’m afeard that Samson was groggy at the time. Howiver, we took him up, an’ invited Glutton to a feast next day. He was a great thin savage, over six futt high, with plenty breadth of beam about the shoulders, and a mouth that seemed made a’ purpus for shovellin’ wittles into. We laid in lots of grub because we was all more or less given to feedin’—an’ some of us not bad hands at it. Before we began the feast Samson, who seemed to be repentin’ of his bet, took us a-one side an’ says, ‘Now mind,’ says he, ‘I can’t say exactly how he’ll bu’st, or when he’ll bu’st, or what sort of a bu’st he’ll make of it.’ ‘Oh, never mind that,’ says we, laughin’. ‘We won’t be par-tickler how he does it. If he bu’sts at all, in any fashion, we’ll be satisfied, and admit that you’ve won.’

“Well, we went to work, an’ the way that Injin went in for grub was quite awful. You wouldn’t have believed it if you’d seen it.”

“P’r’aps not,” said Zulu, with a grin.

“An’ when we’d all finished we sat glarin’ at him, some of us half believin’ that he’d really go off, but he took no notice. On he went until he’d finished a small leg o’ pork, two wild-ducks, six plover, eight mugs o’ tea, an’ fifteen hard-boiled eggs. But there was no sign o’ bu’stin’. Glutton was as slim to look at as before he began. At this pint Samson got up an’ went out o’ the hut. In a minute or so he came back with a bark basket quite shallow, but about fourteen inches square, an’ full of all kinds of eggs—for the wild-birds was breedin’ at the time. ‘What’s that for?’ says we. ‘For Glutton, when he’s ready for ’em,’ says he. ‘There’s six dozen here, an’ if that don’t do it, I’ve got another basket ready outside.’ With that he sets the basket down in front o’ the Injin, who just gave a glance at it over a goose drumstick he was tearin’ away at. Well, Samson turned round to sit down in his place again, when somethin’ or other caught hold of his foot tripped him up, an’ down he sat squash! into the basket of eggs. You niver did see sich a mess! There was sich a lot, an’ Samson was so heavy, that the yolks squirted up all round him, an’ a lot of it went slap into some of our faces. For one moment we sat glarin’, we was so took by surprise, and Glutton was so tickled that he gave a great roar of laughter, an’ swayed himself from side to side, an’ fore an’ aft like a Dutchman in a cross sea. Of course we joined him. We couldn’t help it, but we was brought up in the middle by Samson sayin’, while he scraped himself, ‘Well, boys, I’ve won.’ ‘Won!’ says I, ‘how so? He ain’t bu’sted yet.’ ‘Hasn’t he?’ cried Samson. ‘Hasn’t he gone on eatin’ till he bu’sted out larfin?’ We was real mad at ’im, for a’ course that wasn’t the kind o’ bu’stin we meant; and the end of it was, that we spent the most o’ that night disputin’ the pint whether Samson had lost or won. We continued the dispute every night for a month, an’ sometimes had a free fight over it by way of a change, but I don’t think it was ever settled. Leastways it wasn’t up to the time when I left the country.”

“Here, Zulu, hand me a mug o’ tea,” said Billy Bright; “the biggest one you’ve got.”

“What’s make you turn so greedy?” asked Zulu.

“It’s not greed,” returned Billy, “but Ned’s little story is so hard an’ tough, that I can’t get it down dry.”

“I should think not. It would take the Glutton himself to swallow it with a bucket of tea to wash it down,” said Luke Trevor.

At this point the conversation was interrupted by an order from the skipper to go on deck and “jibe” the smack, an operation which it would be difficult, as well as unprofitable, to explain to landsmen. When it was completed the men returned to the little cabin, where conversation was resumed.

“Who’ll spin us a yarn now, something more believable than the last?” asked Billy, as they began to refill pipes.

“Do it yourself, boy,” said Joe.

“Not I. Never was a good hand at it,” returned Billy, “but I know that the mate o’ the Sparrow there can spin a good yarn. Come, Evan, tell us about that dead man what came up to point out his own murderer.”

“I’m not sure,” said Evan, “that the story is a true one, though there’s truth at the bottom of it, for we all know well enough that we sometimes pick up a corpse in our nets.”

“Know it!” exclaimed Joe, “I should think we do. Why, it’s not so long ago that I picked one up myself. But what were ye goin’ to say, mate?”

“I was goin’ to say that this yarn tells of what happened long before you an’ me was born; so we can’t be wery sure on it you know.”

“Why not?” interrupted Ned Spivin. “The battle o’ Trafalgar happened long before you an’ me was born; so did the battle o’ Waterloo, yet we’re sure enough about them, ain’t we?”

“Right you are, Ned,” returned Evan; “it would be a bad look-out for the world if we couldn’t believe or prove the truth of things that happened before we was born!”

“Come, shut up your argiments,” growled Gunter, “an’ let Evan go on wi’ his yarn.”

“Well, as I was a-goin’ to say,” resumed Evan, “the story may or may not be true, but it’s possible, an’ it was told to me when I was a boy by the old fisherman as said he saw the dead man his-self. One stormy night the fleet was out—for you must know the fishin’ was carried on in the old days in the same way pretty much, though they hadn’t steamers to help ’em like we has now. They was goin’ along close-hauled, with a heavy sea on, not far, it must have been, from the Silver Pits—though they wasn’t discovered at that time.”

We may interrupt Evan here, to explain that the Silver Pits is a name given to a particular part of the North Sea which is frequented by immense numbers of soles. The man who by chance discovered the spot kept his secret, it is said, long enough to enable him to make a considerable amount of money. It was observed, however, that he was in the habit of falling behind the fleet frequently, and turning up with splendid hauls of “prime” fish. This led to the discovery of his haunt, and the spot named the Silver Pits, is still a prolific fishing-ground.

“Well,” continued Evan, “there was a sort of half furriner aboard. He wasn’t a reg’lar fisherman—never served his apprenticeship to it, you know,—an’ was named Zola. The skipper, whose name was John Dewks, couldn’t abide him, an’ they often used to quarrel, specially when they was in liquor. There was nobody on deck that night except the skipper and Zola, but my old friend—Dawson was his name—was in his bunk lyin’ wide awake. He heard that Zola an’ the skipper was disputin’ about somethin’, but couldn’t make out what was said—only he know’d they was both very angry. At last he heard the skipper say sharply—‘Ha! would you dare?’

“‘Yes, I vill dare,’ cries Zola, in his broken English, ‘I vill cut your throat.’ With that there seemed to be a kind of scuffle. Then there was a loud cry, and Dawson with the other men rushed on deck.

“‘Oh!’ cried Zola, lookin’ wild, ‘de skipper! him fall into de sea! Quick, out wid de boat!’

“Some ran to the boat but the mate stopped ’em. ‘It’s no use, boys. She couldn’t live in such a sea, an’ our poor skipper is fathoms down by this time. It would only sacrifice more lives to try.’ ‘This was true,’ Dawson said, ‘for the night was as dark as pitch, an’ a heavy sea on.’

“Dawson went to the man an’ whispered in his ear. ‘You know you are lying, Zola; you cut the skipper’s throat.’

“‘No, I didn’t; he felled overboard,’ answered the man in such an earnest tone that Dawson’s opinion was shook. But next day when they was at breakfast, he noticed that the point of Zola’s clasp-knife was broken off.

“‘Hallo! Zola,’ says he, ‘what’s broke the point of your knife?’

“The man was much confused, but replied quickly enough that he broke it when cleaning fish—it had dropped on the deck an’ broke.

“This brought back all Dawson’s suspicion, but as he could prove nothing he thought it best to hold his tongue. That afternoon, however, it fell calm, an’ they found themselves close aboard of one of the smacks which had sailed astern of them on the port quarter durin’ the night. She appeared to be signallin’, so the mate hove-to till he came up.

“‘We’ve got the body o’ your skipper aboard,’ they said, when near enough to hail.

“Dawson looked at Zola. His lips were compressed, and he was very stern, but said nothin’. Nobody spoke except the mate, who told them to shove out the boat and fetch the body. This was done, and it was found that the poor man had been wounded in the breast. ‘Murdered!’ the men whispered, as they looked at Zola.

“‘Why you looks at me so?’ he says, fiercely; ‘skipper falls over an’ sink; git among wrecks at de bottom, an’ a nail scratch him.’

“Nobody answered, but when the corpse was put down in the hold the mate examined it and found the broken point of Zola’s knife stickin’ in the breast-bone.

“That night at supper, while they were all eatin’ an’ talkin’ in low tones, the mate said in an easy off-hand tone, ‘Hand me your knife, Zola, for a moment.’ Now, his askin’ that was so natural-like that the man at once did what he was asked, though next moment he saw the mistake. His greatest mistake, however, was that he did not fling the knife away when he found it was broken; but they do say that ‘murder will out.’ The mate at once fitted the point to the broken knife. Zola leaped up and tried to snatch another knife from one o’ the men, but they was too quick for him. He was seized, and his hands tied, and they were leadin’ him along the deck to put him in the hold when he burst from them and jumped overboard. They hove-to at once, an’ out with the boat, but never saw Zola again; he must have gone down like a stone.”

“That was a terrible end,” said Joe, “and him all unprepared to die.”

“True, Joe, but are we all prepared to die?” rejoined Evan, looking around, earnestly. “It is said that there’s a day comin’ when the sea shall give up all its dead, and the secrets of men, whatever they are, shall be revealed.”

From this point Evan, whose earnest spirit was always hungering after the souls of men, led the conversation to religious subjects, and got his audience into a serious, attentive state of mind.

We have said that David Bright had remained that light on deck, but he did not on that account lose all that went on in the little cabin. He heard indeed the light conversation and chaff of the earlier part of the night but paid no heed to it. When, however, Evan began the foregoing anecdote, his attention was aroused, and as the speaker sat close to the foot of the companion every word he uttered was audible on deck.

At the time, our fallen skipper was giving way to despair. He had been so thoroughly determined to give up drink; had been so confident of the power of his really strong will, and had begun the struggle so well and also continued for a time so successfully, that this fall had quite overwhelmed him. It was such a thorough fall, too, accompanied by such violence to his poor boy and to one of his best men, that he had no heart for another effort. And once again the demon tempter came to him, as he stood alone there, and helpless on the deserted deck. A faint gleam of light, shooting up the companion, illuminated his pale but stern features which had an unusual expression on them, but no eye was there to look upon those features, save the all-searching Eye of God.

“It was soon over with him!” he muttered, as he listened to Evan telling of Zola’s leap into the sea. “An’ a good riddance to myself as well as to the world it would be if I followed his example. I could drop quietly over, an’ they’d never find it out till—but—”

“Come, don’t hesitate,” whispered the demon. “I thought you were a man once, but now you seem to be a coward after all!”

It was at this critical point that Evan, the mate of the Sparrow, all ignorant of the eager listener overhead, began to urge repentance on his unbelieving comrades, and pointed to the Crucified One—showing that no sinner was beyond hope, that Peter had denied his Master with oaths and curses, and that even the thief on the cross had life enough left for a saving look.

“We have nothing to do, lads, only to submit,” he said, earnestly.

“Nothing to do!” thought David Bright in surprise, not unmingled with contempt as he thought of the terrible fight he had gone through before his fall.

“Nothing to do!” exclaimed John Gunter in the cabin, echoing, as it were, the skipper’s thought, with much of his surprise and much more of his contempt. “Why, mate, I thought that you religious folk felt bound to pray, an’ sing, an’ preach, an’ work!”

“No, lad—no—not for salvation,” returned Evan; “we have only to accept salvation—to cease from refusing it and scorning it. After we have got it from and in Jesus, we will pray, and sing, and work, ay, an’ preach too, if we can, for the love of the Master who ‘loved us and gave Himself for us.’”

Light began to break in on the dark mind of David Bright, as he listened to these words, and earnestly did he ponder them, long after the speaker and the rest of the crew had turned in.

Daylight began to flow softly over the sea, like a mellow influence from the better land, when the net was hauled.

Soon the light intensified and showed the rest of the fleet floating around in all directions, and busily engaged in the same work—two of the nearest vessels being the mission smack and that of Singing Peter. Ere long the fish were cleaned, packed, put on board the steamer and off to market. By that time a dead calm prevailed, compelling the fishermen to “take things easy.”

“Billy,” said David Bright, “fetch me that bit of wood and a hatchet.”

Billy obeyed.

“Now then, let’s see how well you’ll cut that down to the size o’ this trunk—to fit on where that bit has bin tore off.”

The skipper was seated on a pile of boxes; he flung his left hand with a careless swing on the fish-box on which Billy was about to cut the piece of wood, and pointed to the trunk which needed repair. Billy raised the axe and brought it down with the precision and vigour peculiar to him. Instead of slicing off a lamp of wood, however, the hatchet struck a hard knot, glanced off, and came down on his father’s open palm, into which it cut deeply.

“Oh! father,” exclaimed the poor boy, dropping the axe and standing as if petrified with horror as the blood spouted from the gaping wound, flowed over the fish-box, and bespattered the deck.

He could say no more.

“Shove out the boat, boys,” said the skipper promptly, as he shut up the wounded hand and bound it tightly in that position with his pocket-handkerchief to stop the bleeding.

Joe Davidson, who had seen the accident, and at once understood what was wanted, sprang to the boat at the same moment with Luke and Spivin. A good heave, at the tackle; a hearty shove with strong shoulders, and the stern was over the rail. Another shove and it was in the sea.

“Lucky we are so close to her,” said Joe, as he jumped into the boat followed by Luke and Gunter.

“Lucky indeed,” responded Luke.

Somehow David Bright managed to roll or jump or scramble into his boat as smartly with one hand as with two. It is a rare school out there on the North Sea for the practice of free-hand gymnastics!

“Bear away for the mission smack, Joe.”

No need to give Joe that order. Ere the words had well passed the skipper’s lips he and Luke Trevor were bending their powerful backs, and, with little Billy at the steering oar, the boat of the Evening Star went bounding over the waves towards the fisherman’s floating refuge for wounded bodies and souls.

Chapter Eighteen.
A Day of Calm followed by a Night of Storm

A fine-toned manly voice was heard, as the boat approached the mission smack, singing one of the popular hymns which are now pretty well-known throughout the fishing fleets.

“No mistaking that voice,” said David Bright turning an amused look on Billy; “Singin’ Peter won’t knock off till he’s under the sod or under the sea.”

“Then he’ll never knock off at all,” returned Billy, “for Luke there has bin tellin’ me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that will never end when we git into the next world.”

“That depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down.”

“Well, I s’pose it does. But tell me, daddy, ain’t the hand very bad? I’m so awful sorry, you know.”

“It might ha’ bin worse, Billy, but don’t you take on so, my boy. We’ll be all right an’ ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow, on board the mission-ship.”

The hand was not however, so easily fixed up as David Bright seemed to expect.

“Come down an’ let’s have a look at it, David,” said the skipper, when the vessel’s deck was gained.

By that time Singing Peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of the Evening Star.

“It’s a bad cut,” said Peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man’s palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. “We’ll have to try a little o’ the surgeon’s business here. You can take a stitch in human flesh I daresay, skipper? If you can’t, I’ll try.”

The mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. He sponged the wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness—whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell—drew the edges of the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper’s fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around him.

“A regular boxin’-glove,” exclaimed David, hitting the operator a gentle tap on the nose with it.

“Thank ’ee, friend,” said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; “you know that the Fishermen’s Mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does it expect to receive a rap without asking. Come, David, you mustn’t flourish it about like that. We all know you’re a plucky fellow, but it’ll never splice properly if you go on so.”

“Hold on, Mr Missionary!” cried Gunter, as the lid of the chest was being closed, “don’t shut up yet. I wants some o’ your doctor’s stuff.”

“All right my hearty! What do you want?”

“He wants a pair o’ eye-glasses,” cried Billy, whose heart was comforted, and whose spirits were raised by the success of the operation on his father’s hand; “you see he’s so short-sighted that he can’t see no good in nobody but his-self.”

“Shut up, you young catfish! See here,” said Gunter, stretching out his wrists, which were red and much swollen.

“Oh! I can give you something for that;” so saying the skipper supplied the fisherman with a little ointment, and then, going to a cupboard, produced a pair of worsted cuffs. “You rub ’em well with that first,” he said, “an’ then wear the cuffs.”

“He’ll want more cuffs than that,” said Billy.

“I think not my boy,” said the skipper, with a benignant look, as he stooped to lock the chest. “When these are worn-out he can have more.”

“Well, if you’d take my advice,” returned Billy, “you’d give him another pair. A cuff on each side of his head would do him a world of good.”

Gunter turned sharply to make a grasp at his young tormentor, but the lad had taken care to have the cabin table between them, and at once sprang laughing up the companion.

“He’s a smart boy, that,” remarked the mission skipper.

“Rather too smart,” growled Gunter, as he pocketed his salve and cuffs, and went on deck.

“Smart enough!” remarked David Bright with a low chuckle of satisfaction.

“Come now,” said the Missionary, “you’ll stop and have some coffee or cocoa with us. You can’t work wi’ that hand, you know. Besides, there’ll be no fishin’ till this calm’s over. So we mean to have a little meetin’ in the afternoon. We’re in luck too, just now,” he added in a lower voice, “for we’ve got a real parson aboard. That’s him talkin’ to my mate. He’s here on a visit—partly for his health, I believe—a regular clergyman of the Church of England and a splendid preacher, let me tell you. You’ll stop, now, won’t you?”

David Bright’s countenance grew sad. The memory of his recent failure and fall came over him.

“What’s the use o’ me attendin’ your meetin’s?” he said, almost angrily; “my soul’s past recovery, for I don’t believe in your prayin’ an’ psalm-singin’.”

“You trusted me freely wi’ your hand, David, though I’m no surgeon. Why won’t you trust me a little wi’ your soul, though I’m no parson—especially as it seems to be in a very bad way by your own account? Have a talk wi’ the parson. He’s got such a way with him that he’s sure to do you good.”

It was not so much the words thus spoken as the grave, kind, sensible tones and looks which accompanied them, that won the despairing fisherman.

“Well, I’ll stop,” he said, with a short laugh; “the cocoa may do me good, even though the meetin’ don’t.”

“Now you’re becoming soft and unmanly—a regular old wife,” whispered the demon, who had watched him anxiously throughout the whole morning.

“The boat’s alongside, father,” Billy called out, at that moment down the open skylight.

“That’s right,” replied the father in a strong hearty voice. “You go aboard wi’ the rest, my boy, an’ come back in the arternoon when you see ’em hoist the mission-flag. I’m goin’ to stop aboard, an we’ll all attend the meetin’ together. An’ look you, Billy, fetch my Noo Testament with ’ee—the one your mother gave me.”

“Praise the Lord for these words!” said the mission skipper.

He did not say it very loud, for he was not by nature a demonstrative man; neither did he whisper it, for he was not ashamed to thank his God for mercies received.

At the same moment the demon fled away for that time—according to the true word, “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.”

David Bright did not talk much that afternoon. His injured hand gave him considerable pain, but it was not that which silenced him. Thoughts too deep for utterance were passing through his brain. It was the turning-point of his life; and, while his mind was busy with the great issues that must be faced sooner or later by all mankind, he listened with mingled surprise, hope, fear, and pleasure, to the free and hearty converse of the godly crew of the gospel-ship, as they discoursed pleasantly, now of the homes in Yarmouth or Gorleston, now of the home above; or sang, with stentorian voices, some of the lively hymns that are happily current in the present day, or prayed in the ungrammatical language, and with the intense fervour, of untutored but thoroughly earnest men.

They thought that David was suffering from his injury, and wisely let him alone, though they occasionally gave him a cheering word, and frequently plied him with hot cocoa, which he preferred much, he said, to coffee.

This may seem to some a rather incongruous way of presenting religious and secular things. It may be so, but we are not careful to preserve congruity, or to dilute our dish to please the palate of the fastidious. This world is full of incongruities, and we are endeavouring to present that portion of it now under consideration as it actually is at the present time.

The heartiest, the most genial, and perhaps the noisiest fisherman there that day was the man whom we have referred to more than once as Singing Peter. It seemed as if he were intoxicated with joy, and could not refrain from bursting into song in praise of Redeeming Love. But Peter was by no means exclusive in his ideas. He could descend to the simple matters of this life when needful. Like David Bright he was a temporary visitor to the mission-ship, and waited for the afternoon meeting. Peter possessed:

 
“A heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathise,”
 

and found time to have a private talk with David, whom he drew out so tenderly, yet powerfully, that he wormed from him the whole story of his spiritual as well as spirituous warfare. He even got him down into the cabin alone, and, when there, proposed that they should pray together. To this David at once agreed, and the good man prayed with such simple fervour that David found himself ere long weeping like a child. That the prayer of Singing Peter was in harmony with his spirit was evident from the deep “Amen!” which he uttered at its conclusion.

“Many a time, Peter,” he said, grasping his friend’s hand, as they rose from their knees, “many a time has my face bin washed wi’ salt water from the sea, but it’s not often bin dabbled wi’ salt water from my eyes!”

In the afternoon the weather became unusually sultry, and as the calm continued, many of the fishing-smacks closed by imperceptible degrees around the mission-ship, whose flag flying at the mizzen told that the worship of God was soon to begin. Several of the other smacks also flew Bethel-flags. These belonged to the whole-hearted ones who had fairly and boldly come out on the Lord’s side. Others drew near, although they did not fly the flag. Some of these belonged to the half-hearted, who wanted medicines or books, and were rather indifferent about the meeting, though willing enough, perhaps, to remain to it.

One way or another there was soon a long tail of boats floating astern of the gospel-ship, and a goodly congregation on her deck. Her skipper was very busy. Books were being actively exchanged. One or two men wanted to sign the pledge. Salves, and plasters, and pills, were slightly in demand, for even North Sea fishermen, tough though they be, are subject to physical disturbance.

At last the hour arrived, and the heavy-booted, rough-jacketed, sou’-westered, burly congregation adjourned to the hold, where, appropriately seated on fish-trunks, they opened their hymn-books and began to sing.

They had a harmonium—provided, of course, by the Mission—and it chanced that the mission skipper had music enough in him to play a simple accompaniment on it, but the strong-lunged congregation drowned it out in the first five minutes.