Captain Jan stopped beside some fallen rocks. We had been walking for more than an hour in these subterranean labyrinths and felt inclined to rest.

"You were asking about the word wheal," said the captain, sticking his candle against the wall of the level and sitting down on a ledge, "it do signify a mine, as Wheal Frances, Wheal Owles, Wheal Edwards, and the like. When Cornishmen do see a London Company start a mine on a grand scale, with a deal of fuss and superficial show, and an imposing staff of directors, etcetera, while, down in the mine itself, where the real work ought to be done, perhaps only two men and a boy are known to be at work, they shake their heads and button up their pockets; perhaps they call the affair wheal Do-em, and when that mine stops, (becomes what we call a 'knacked bal') it may be styled wheal Donem!"

A traveller chanced to pass a water-wheel not long ago, near Saint Just.

"What's that?" he said to a miner who sat smoking his pipe beside it.

"That, sur? why, that's a pump, that is."

"What does it pump?" asked the traveller.

"Pump, sur?" replied the man with a grim smile, "why, et do pump gold out o' the Londoners!"

There have been too many wheal Do-ems in Cornwall.

Botallack mine is not, I need scarcely say, a wheal Do-em. It is a grand old mine—grand because its beginning is enveloped in the mists of antiquity; because it affords now, and has afforded for ages back, sustenance to hundreds of miners and their families, besides enriching the country; because its situation on the wild cliffs is unusually picturesque, and because its dark shafts and levels not only descend to an immense depth below the surface, but extend far out under the bottom of the sea. Its engine-houses and machinery are perched upon the edge of a steep cliff, and scattered over its face and down among its dark chasms in places where one would imagine that only a sea-gull would dare to venture.

Underground there exists a vast region of shafts and levels, or tunnels—mostly low, narrow, and crooked places—in which men have to stoop and walk with caution, and where they work by candlelight—a region which is measured to the inch, and has all its parts mapped out and named as carefully as are the fields above. Some idea of the extent of this mine may be gathered from the fact that it is 245 fathoms, (1470 feet), deep, and that all the levels put together form an amount of cutting through almost solid granite equal to nearly 40 miles in extent. The deepest part of the mine is that which lies under the bottom of the sea, three-quarters of a mile from the shore; and, strange to say, that is also the driest part of the mine. The Great Eastern would find depth of water sufficient to permit of her anchoring and floating securely in places where miners are at work, blowing up the solid rock, 1470 feet below her keel—a depth so profound that the wildest waves that ever burst upon the shore, or the loudest thunder that ever reverberated among the cliffs, could not send down the faintest echo of a sound.

The ladder-way by which the men descend to their work is 1230 feet deep. It takes half an hour to descend and an hour to climb to the surface.

It was a bright morning in May when I walked over from Saint Just with Captain Jan to pay my first underground visit to Botallack.

Arrayed in the red-stained canvas coat and trousers of the mine, with a candle stuck in the front of our very strong hats and three spare ones each hung at our breasts, we proceeded to the ladder-way. This was a small platform with a hole in it just big enough to admit a man, out of which projected the head of a strong ladder. Before descending Captain Jan glanced down the hole and listened to a distant, regular, clicking sound—like the ticking of a clock. "A man coming up," said he, "we'll wait a minute."

I looked down, and, in the profound abyss, saw the twinkling of, apparently, a little star. The steady click of the miner's nailed shoes on the iron rounds of the ladder continued, and the star advanced, until, by its feeble light I saw the hat to which it was attached. Presently a man emerged from the hole, and raising himself erect, gave vent to a long, deep-drawn sigh. It was, I may say, a suggestive sigh, for there was a sense of intense relief conveyed by it. The man had just completed an hour of steady, continuous climbing up the ladders, after eight hours of night-work in impure atmosphere, and the first great draught of the fresh air of heaven must have seemed like nectar to his soul! His red garments were soaking, perspiration streamed from every pore in his body, and washed the red earth in streaks down his pale countenance. Although pale, however, the miner was strong and in the prime of life. Chills and bad air, (the two great demons of the mines), had not yet smitten his sturdy frame with "miner's complaint." He looked tired, but not exhausted, and bestowed a grave glance on me and a quiet nod on Captain Jan as he walked away to change his dress in the drying-house. My contemplation of the retiring miner was interrupted by Captain Jan saying—"I'll go first, sir, to catch you if you should fall." This remark reminded me of many stories I had heard of men "falling away from the ladders;" of beams breaking and letting them tumble into awful gulfs; of stones giving way and coming down the shafts like grape or cannon-shot, and the like. However, I stepped on the ladder and prepared to follow my guide into the regions of unchanging night! A few fathoms' descent brought us into twilight and to a small platform on which the foot of the first ladder rested. Through a hole in this the head of the second ladder appeared.

Here we lighted the candles, for the next ladder—a longer one, 50 feet or so—would have landed us in midnight darkness. Half way down it, I looked up and saw the hole at the top like a large white star. At the foot I looked up again, the star was gone, and I felt that we were at last in a region where, (from the time of creation), sunlight had never shone. Down, down, ever downwards, was the uppermost idea in my mind for some time after that. Other thoughts there were, of course, but that one of never-ending descent outweighed them all for a time. As we got lower the temperature increased; then perspiration broke out. Never having practised on the treadmill, my muscles ere long began to feel the unwonted exercise, and I thought to myself, "If you are in this state so soon, what will you be when you get to the bottom, and how will you get up again?"

At this point we reached the foot of another ladder, and Captain Jan said, "We'll walk a bit in the level here and then go down the pump-shaft." The change of posture and action in the level we had now entered was agreeable, but the path was not a good one. It was an old, low, and irregular level, with a rugged floor full of holes with water in them, and with projections in the roof that rendered frequent stooping necessary. The difficulty of one's progress in such places is that, while you are looking out for your head, you stumble into the holes, and when the holes claim attention you run your head against the roof; but, thanks to the miner's hat, no evil follows.

We were now in a region of profound silence! When we paused for a minute to rest, it felt as if the silence of the tomb itself had surrounded us—for not the faintest echo reached us from the world above, and the miners at work below us were still far down out of ear-shot. In a few seconds we came to a yawning hole in the path, bridged by a single plank. Captain Jan crossed. "How deep is it?" I asked, preparing to follow. "About 60 feet," said he, "it's a winze, and goes down to the next level!"

I held my breath and crossed with caution.

"Are there many winzes, Captain Jan?"

"Yes, dozens of 'em. There are nigh 40 miles of levels and lots of winzes everywhere!"

The possibility of anything happening to Captain Jan, and my light getting blown out occurred to me, but I said nothing. When we had walked a quarter of a mile in this level, we came to the point where it entered the pump-shaft. The shaft itself was narrow—about 8 or 10 feet in diameter—but everything in it was ponderous and gigantic. The engine that drove the pump was 70 horse power; the pump-rod was a succession of wooden beams, each like the ridge-pole of a house, jointed together—a rugged affair, with iron bolts, and nuts, and projections at the joints. In this shaft the kibbles were worked. These kibbles are iron buckets by which ore is conveyed to the surface. Two are worked together by a chain—one going up full while the other comes down empty. Both are free to clatter about the shaft and bang against each other in passing, but they are prevented from damaging the pump-rod by a wooden partition. Between this partition and the pump was the ladder we had now to descend, with just space for a man to pass.

Captain Jan got upon it, and as he did so the pump went up, (a sweep of 10 or 12 feet), with a deep watery gurgle, as if a giant were being throttled. As I got upon the ladder the pump came down with another gurgle, close to my shoulder in passing. To avoid this I kept close to the planks on the other side, but at that moment I heard a noise as if of distant thunder. "It's only the kibbles," said Captain Jan.

Up came one and down went the other, passing each other with a dire crash, not far from where we stood, and causing me to shrink into the smallest possible space. "There's no danger," said the Captain encouragingly, "if you only keep cool and hold on." Water was coursing freely down the shaft and spirting over us in fine spray, so that, ere long, we were as wet and dirty as any miner in Botallack. At last we reached the 120 fathom level, 720 feet from "grass."

Here the Captain told me men were at work not far off and he wished to visit them. "Would I wait where I was until he returned?"

"What!" said I, "wait in a draughty level with an extinguishable candle close to the main shaft, with 30 or 40 miles of levels around, and no end of winzes? No, no, Captain Jan, go on; I'll stick to you now through thick and thin like your own shadow!"

With one of his benignant smiles the captain resumed his progress. In a few minutes I heard the clink of hammers, and, soon after, came to a singular cavern. It was a place where the lode had been very wide and rich. Years before it had been all cut away from level to level, leaving a void space so high and deep that the rays of our candles were lost in obscurity. We walked through it in mid-air, as it were, supported on cross beams with planks laid thereon. Beyond this we came to a spot where a number of miners were at work in various places and positions.

One, a big, broad-shouldered man named Dan, was seated on a wooden box hammering at the rock with tremendous energy. With him Captain Jan conversed a few minutes on the appearance of the lode, and then whispered to me, "A good specimen of a man that, sir, and he's got an uncommon large family,"—then, turning to the man—"I say, Dan, you've got a biggish family, haven't you?"

"Iss, a'w iss, Cap'n Jan, I've a braave lot o' child'n."

"How many have you had altogether, Dan?"

"I've had seventeen, sur, but ten of 'em's gone dead—only seven left. My brother Jim, though, he's had more than me."

After a few more words we left this man, and, in another place, found this brother Jim, working in the roof of the level with several others. They had cut so high up in a slanting direction that they appeared to be in another chamber, which was brilliantly lighted with their candles. Jim, stripped naked to the waist, stood on the end of a plank, hammering violently. Looking up into his curious burrow, Captain Jan shouted—"Hallo! Jim!"

"Hallo, Captain Jan."

"Here's a gentleman wants to know how many children you've had."

"How many child'n, say 'ee? Why, I've had nineteen, sur, but there's eleven of 'em gone dead. Seven of 'em did come in three years and a half—three doubles and a single—but there's only eight of 'em alive now!"

I afterwards found that, although this man and his brother were exceptions, the miners generally had very large families.

While we were talking, a number of shots were heard going off in various directions. This was explained by Captain Jan. All the forenoon the miners employ their time in boring and charging the blast-holes. About mid-day they fire them and then hasten to a clear part of the mine to eat luncheon and smoke their pipes while the gunpowder smoke clears away. This it does very slowly, taking sometimes more than an hour to clear sufficiently so as to let the men resume work.

Immediately after the shots were heard, the men began to assemble. They emerged from the gloom on all sides like red hobgoblins—wet and perspiring. Some walked out of darkness from either end of the level; some stalked out from diverging levels; others slid, feet first, from holes in the roof and sides, and some rose, head-foremost, from yawning gulfs in the floor. They all saluted Captain Jan as they came up, and each stuck his candle against the wall and sat down on a heap of wet rubbish, to lunch. Some had Cornish pasty, and others a species of heavy cake—so heavy that the fact of their being able to carry it at all said much for their digestive organs—but most of them ate plain bread, and all of them drank water which had been carried down from the realms of light in little canteens. Frugal though the fare was, it sufficed to brace them for the rest of the day's work.

After a short talk with these men Captain Jan and I continued our descent of the ladders—down we went, ever downwards, until at last we reached the very bottom of that part of the mine—1230 feet below the surface.

Here we found only two men at work, with whom Captain Jan conversed for a time while we rested, and then proceeded to ascend "to grass" by the same ladder-ways. If I felt that the descent was like never getting to the bottom, much more did the ascent seem like never getting to the top!

I may remark here that the bottom which we had reached was not the bottom under the sea. At another time Captain Jan took me to that submarine cavern where, as I have said, no sound ever reaches the ear from the world above. There is, however, a level close under the sea where the roar of Ocean is distinctly heard. It is in a part of Botallack Mine named Wheal Cock. It was very rich in copper ore, and the miners worked at the roof of it so vigorously, that they began to fear it would give way. One of them, therefore, in order to ascertain what thickness of solid rock still lay between them and the sea, bored a small hole upwards, and advanced about three feet or so before the water rushed in. Of course they had a wooden plug ready and stopped up the hole. But, as it was dangerous to cut away any more of the roof, they were finally obliged unwillingly to forsake that part of the mine.

This occurred some thirty years before my visit, yet when I went to see the place, I found the wooden plug still hard and fast in the hole and quite immoveable. As I stood and listened I could well understand the anxiety of the miners, for at the upward rush of each wave, I could hear the rattle of the boulders overhead, like monster cannon balls, and a repetition of the thunder when the waves retreated.

On our way up the ladders we stopped several times to rest. At such times Captain Jan related various anecdotes illustrative of mining life.

"This is a place," said he, on one occasion, "which reminds me of a man who was always ready to go in for dangerous work. His name was Old Maggot. He was not really old, but he had a son named after himself, and his friends had to distinguish him from the young Maggot."

So saying, Captain Jan trimmed his candle with nature's own pair of snuffers—the finger and thumb—and proceeded as follows:

"Some time ago the miners in Botallack came to an old deserted mine that was full of water—this is what miners call a 'house of water.' The ore there was rich, but the men were afraid to work it lest they should come suddenly on the old mine and break a hole through to it—in other words 'hole to that house of water.' They stopped working at last, and no one seemed willing to run the risk of driving the hole and letting out the water. In this difficulty they appealed to Old Maggot, who at once agreed to do it. The old mine was about three-quarters of a mile back from the sea-shore, but at that time it could only be got at by entering the adit level from the shore. It was through this level that the water would have to escape. At the mouth of it a number of men assembled to see Old Maggot go in. In he went, alone, with a bunch of candles, and, as he walked along, he stuck a lighted candle every here and there against the wall to light him out,—for he expected to have to run for it.

"When he came to the place, the water was spirting out everywhere. But Old Maggot didn't mind. He grasped his hammer and borer and began. The work was done sooner than he had expected! Suddenly the rock gave way and the water burst upon him, putting out his candle and turning him heels over head. He jumped up and tried to run, but the flood rose on him, carried him off his legs, swept him right through the level, and hurled him through the adit-mouth at last, upon the sea-shore! He was stunned a little, but soon recovered, and, beyond a few bruises and a wetting, was nothing the worse of his adventure.

"That," said Captain Jan, pointing to the rock beside us, "was the place where Old Maggot holed to the house of water, and this was the level through which he was washed and through part of which I will now conduct you."

Accordingly, we traversed the level, and, coming to another shaft, continued our upward progress.

While we were slowly toiling up, step by step, we were suddenly arrested by the sound of voices singing in the far distance above us. The music was slow and solemn. Coming as it did so unexpectedly in such a strange place, it sounded quite magical and inexpressibly sweet.

"Miners descending to work," said my guide, as we listened. The air was familiar to me, and, as it grew louder and louder, I recognised that beautiful tune called "French," to which we are accustomed to sing the 121st Psalm, "I to the hills will lift mine eyes." Gradually the men came down to us. We stood on one side. As they passed they ceased singing and nodded to Captain Jan. There were five or six stout fellows and a boy. The latter was as active as his companions, and his treble voice mingled tunefully with theirs as they continued the descent, and resumed the psalm, keeping time to the slow measured tread of their steps. We watched until their lights disappeared, and then resumed our upward way, while the sweet strains grew fainter and fainter, until they were gradually lost in the depths below. The pleasant memory of that psalm still remained with me, when I emerged from the ladder-shaft of Botallack mine, and—after having been five hours underground—once more drank in, (with a new and intensified power of appreciation), the fresh air of heaven and the blessed influences of green fields and sunshine.

To many a weird and curious part of the great mine did the obliging Captain Jan lead me, but perhaps the most interesting part was the lowest depth under the sea, to which my wife accompanied us. This part is reached by the Boscawen shaft, a sloping one which the men descend in an iron car or gig. The car is let down and hauled up by an iron rope. Once this rope broke, the car flew to the bottom, was dashed against the rock, and all the men—eight in number—were killed.

In 1865 the Prince and Princess of Wales descended this shaft, and Captain Jan was their amiable, not to say eccentric, guide. The Captain was particularly enthusiastic in praise of the Princess. He said that she was a "fine intelligent young lady; that she asked no end of questions, would not rest until she understood everything, and afterwards undertook to explain it all to her less-informed companions." A somewhat amusing incident occurred while they were underground.

When about to begin his duty as guide it suddenly flashed across the mind of poor Captain Jan that, in the excitement of the occasion, he had forgotten to take gloves with him. He was about to lead the Princess by the hand over the rugged floors of the levels. To offer to do so without gloves was not to be thought of. To procure gloves 200 fathoms below the sea was impossible. To borrow from the Prince or the Duke of Sutherland, who were of the party, was out of the question. What was he to do? Suddenly he remembered that he had a newspaper in his pocket. In desperation he wrapped his right hand in a piece of this, and, thus covered, held it out to the Princess. She, innocently supposing that the paper was held up to be looked at, attempted to read. This compelled Captain Jan to explain himself, whereupon she burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and, flinging away the paper, took the ungloved hand of the loyal but bashful miner.



CHAPTER SIX.

THE LAND OF THE VIKINGS.

To this romantic land of mountain and flood I paid four visits at various times. These were meant as holiday and fishing rambles, but were also utilised to gather material for future books.

Norway, as every one knows, was the land of the ancient Vikings—those grand old rascally freebooters—whose indomitable pluck carried them in their open galleys, (little better than big boats), all round the coasts of Europe, across the unknown sea to Iceland, and even to the shores of America itself, before the other nations dreamed of such a continent, and long before Columbus was born; who possessed a literature long before we did; whose blood we Britons carry in our veins; and from whom we have inherited many of our best laws, much of our nautical enterprise, and not a little of our mischief and pugnacity.

Norway, too, is the land where Liberty once found refuge in distress,— that much abused goddess, whom, since the fall of Adam and Eve, License has been endeavouring to defame, and Tyranny to murder, but who is still alive and kicking—ay, and will continue to kick and flourish in spite of all her enemies! Liberty found a home, and a rough welcome, strange to say, among those pagans of the North, at a time when she was banished from every other spot, even from the so-called Christian states in Europe.

No wonder that that grand old country with its towering snow-clad mountains, its mighty fords, its lonesome glens and its historical memories should be styled "gamle Norge" (old Norway—as we speak of old England), with feelings of affection by its energetic and now peaceful inhabitants.

I was privileged to go to Norway as one of a yachting party. There were twelve of us altogether, three ladies, three gentlemen, and a crew of six sailors. Our object was to see the land and take what of amusement, discomfort, or otherwise might chance to come in our way. We had a rough passage over, and were very sick, sailors included! except the captain, an old Scotch highlander who may be described as a compound of obstinacy and gutta-percha. It took us four days to cross. We studied the Norse language till we became sea-sick, wished for land till we got well, then resumed the study of Norse until we sighted the outlying islands and finally cast anchor in the quaint old city and port of Bergen.

Now, it is well to admit at once that some of us were poor linguists; but it is only just to add that we could not be expected to learn much of any language in four days during intervals of internal derangement! However, it is curious to observe how very small an amount of Norse will suffice for ordinary travellers—especially for Scotchmen. The Danish language is the vernacular tongue of Norway and there is a strong affinity between Danish, (or Norse), and broad Scotch. Roughly speaking, I should say that a mixture of three words of Norse to two of broad Scotch, with a powerful emphasis and a strong infusion of impudence, will carry you from the Naze to the North Cape in perfect comfort.

Bergen is a most interesting city, and our party had many small adventures in it, which, however, I will not touch on here. But one scene—the fish-market—must not be passed over.

There must certainly be something in the atmosphere of a fish-market which tends to call forth the mental and physical energies of mankind, (perhaps I should rather say of womankind), and which calls forth a tremendous flow of abusive language. Billingsgate is notorious, but I think that the Bergen fish-market beats it hollow. One or two phases of the national character are there displayed in perfection. It is the Billingsgate of Norway—the spot where Norse females are roused to a pitch of frenzy that is not equalled, I believe, in any other country.

There are one or two peculiarities about the Bergen market, too, which are noteworthy, and which account in some degree for the frantic excitement that reigns there. The sellers of the fish, in the first place, are not women but men. The pier and fleet of boats beside it constitute the market-place. The fishermen row their cargoes of fish direct from the sea to the pier, and there transact sales. There is a stout iron railing along the edge of that pier—a most needful safeguard—over which the servant girls of the town lean and look down at the fishermen, who look up at them with a calm serio-comic "don't-you-wish-you-may-get-it" expression that is deeply impressive. Bargains, of course, are not easily made, and it is in attempting to make these that all the hubbub occurs. The noise is all on the women's side. The men, secure in their floating position, and certain of ultimate success, pay very little attention to the flaxen-haired, blue-eyed damsels who shout at them like maniacs, waving their arms, shaking their fists, snapping their fingers, and flourishing their umbrellas! They all carry umbrellas—cotton ones—of every colour in the rainbow, chiefly pink and sky-blue, for Bergen is celebrated as being the most rainy city in Europe.

The shouting of the girls is not only a safety-valve to their feelings, but is absolutely necessary in order to attract the attention of the men. As 15 or 20 of them usually scream at once, it is only she who screams loudest and flourishes her umbrella most vigorously that can obtain a hearing. The calm unruffled demeanour of the men is as much a feature in the scene as is the frenzy of the women.

During one of my visits I saw a fisherman there who was the most interesting specimen of cool impudence I ever encountered. He wore a blue coat, knee-breeches, white worsted stockings, and on his head of long yellow hair a red night-cap with a tall hat on top of all. When I discovered him he was looking up with a grave sarcastic expression into the flushed countenance of a stout, blue-eyed lass who had just eagerly offered him syv skillings (seven skillings), for a lot of fish. That was about 3 and a half pence, the skilling being half a penny. The man had declined by look, not by tongue, and the girl began to grow angry.

"Haere du, fiskman," (hear you, fisherman), she cried, "vil du har otte skillings?" (will you have eight skillings?)

The fisherman turned away and gazed out to sea. The girl grew crimson in the face at this.

"Fiskman, fiskman!" she cried, "vil du har ni (nine) skillings?"

The fisherman kicked out of the way a lobster that was crawling too near his naked toes, and began to bale out the boat. The girl now seemed to become furious. Her blue eyes flashed like those of a tiger. She gasped for breath, while her cotton umbrella flashed over the fisherman's head like a pink meteor. Had that umbrella been only a foot longer the tall black hat would have come to grief undoubtedly. Suddenly she paused, and in a tone of the deepest solemnity, said—

"Haere du, fiskman, vil du har ti (ten) shillings?"

The rock of Gibraltar is not more unyielding than was that "fiskman." He took off his hat, removed his night-cap, smoothed his yellow hair, and wiped his forehead; then, replacing the cap and hat, he thrust both hands into his coat pockets, turned his back on the entire market, and began to whistle.

This was too much! It was past female endurance! The girl turned round, scattered the bystanders right and left, and fled as if she had resolved then and there to dash out her brains on the first post she met, and so have done with men and fish for ever. But she was not done with them yet! The spell was still upon her. Ere she had got a dozen yards away she paused, stood one moment in uncertainty, and then rushing back forced her way to the old position, and shouted in a tone that might have moved the hearts even of the dead fish—

"Fiskman, here du, vil du hav tolve?"

"Tolve" (or twelve) skillings was apparently not quite the sum he meant to take; but he could hold out no longer—he wavered—and the instant man wavers, woman's victory is gained! Smiling benignly he handed up the fish to the girl, and held out his baling dish for the money.

The storm was over! The girl walked off in triumph with her fish, not a trace of her late excitement visible, the pink cotton umbrella tucked under her arm, and her face beaming with the consciousness of having conquered a "fiskman" in fair and open fight!

Steamers ply regularly between the north and south of Norway in summer, and an excursion in one of these is very enjoyable, not only on account of the scenery, but because of the opportunity afforded of making the acquaintance of the people. I once made a voyage in one of those steamers from the Nordfjord to Bergen, and one thing struck me very particularly on that occasion, namely, the quietness that seemed to be cultivated by the people as if it were a virtue. I do not mean to say that the passengers and crew were taciturn—far from it. They bustled about actively; they were quite sociable and talkative, but no voice was ever raised to a loud pitch. Even the captain gave his orders in a quiet tone. Whether this quietness of demeanour is peculiar to Norwegian steamers in general, or was a feature of this steamer in particular, I am not prepared to say. I can only state the fact of the prevailing quietude on that particular occasion without pretending to explain it.

The state of quiescence culminated at the dinner-table, for there the silence was total! I never saw anything like it! When we had all assembled in the cabin, at the almost whispered invitation of the steward, and had stood for a few minutes looking benign and expectant, but not talking, the captain entered, bowed to the company, was bowed to by the company, motioned us to our seats, whispered "ver so goot," and sat down.

Now this phrase "ver so goot" merits particular notice. It is an expression that seems to me capable of extension and distension. It is a flexible, comfortable, jovial, rollicking expression. To give a perfect translation of it is not easy; but I cannot think of a better way of conveying its meaning, than by saying that it is a compound of the phrases—"be so good," "by your leave," "what's your will," "bless your heart," "all serene," and "that's your sort!"

The first of these, "be so good," is the literal translation—the others are the super-induced sentiments, resulting from the tone and manner in which it is said. You may rely on it, that, when a Norwegian offers you anything and says ver so goot, he means you well and hopes you will make yourself comfortable.

Well, there was no carving at that dinner. The dishes were handed round by waiters. First we had very thin rice soup with wine and raisins in it—the eating of which seemed to me like spoiling one's dinner with a bad pudding. This finished, the plates were removed. "Now," thought I, "surely some one will converse with his neighbour during this interval." No! not a lip moved! I looked at my right and left-hand men; I thought, for a moment, of venturing out upon the unknown deep of a foreign tongue, and cleared my throat for that purpose, but every eye was on me in an instant; and the sound of my own voice, even in that familiar process, was so appalling that I said nothing! I looked at a pretty girl opposite me. I felt certain that the youth beside her was about to speak—he looked as if he meant to, but he didn't. In a few minutes the next course came on. This was a dish like bread-pudding, minus currants and raisins; it looked like a sweet dish, but it turned out to be salt,—and pure melted butter, without any admixture of flour or water, was handed round as sauce. After this came veal and beef cutlets, which were eaten with cranberry jam, pickles, and potatoes. Fourth and last came a course of cold sponge-cake, with almonds and raisins stewed over it, so that, when we had eaten the cake as a sort of cold pudding, we slid, naturally and pleasantly, into dessert, without the delay of a change of plates.

There was no remaining to drink at that dinner. When the last knife and fork were laid down, we all rose simultaneously, and then a general process of bowing ensued.

In regard to this proceeding I have never been able to arrive at a clear understanding, as to what was actually done or intended to be done, but my impression is, that each bowed to the other, and all bowed to the captain; then the captain bowed to each individually and to all collectively, after which a comprehensive bow was made by everybody to all the rest all round—and then we went on deck to smoke. As each guest passed out, he or she said to the captain, "tak for mad," which is a manner and custom, and means "thanks for meat." With the exception of these three words, not a single syllable, to the best of my belief, was uttered by any one during the whole course of that meal!

Of course the gentlemen of our party performed many wonderful exploits in fishing, for sea-trout and salmon abound in Norway, and the river beds are very rugged.

In that land fishing cannot be styled the "gentle art." It is a tearing, wearing, rasping style of work. An account of the catching of one fish will prove this.

One morning I had gone off to fish by myself, with a Norwegian youth to gaff and carry the fish. Coming to a sort of weir, with a deep pool above and a riotous rapid below, I put on a salmon fly and cast into the pool. At once a fish rose and was hooked. It was not a big one—only 12 pounds or thereabouts—but quite big enough to break rod and line if not played respectfully.

For some time, as is usual with salmon, he rushed about the pool, leaped out of the water, and bored up stream. Then he took to going down stream steadily. Now this was awkward, for when a fish of even that size resolves to go down stream, nothing can stop him. My efforts were directed to turning him before he reached the rapid, for, once into that, I should be compelled to follow him or break the line—perhaps the rod also.

At last he reached the head of the rapid. I put on a heavy strain. The rod bent like a hoop and finally began to crack, so I was compelled to let him go.

At the lower end of the pool there was a sort of dam, along which I ran, but soon came to the end of it, where it was impossible to reach the shore owing to the dense bushes which overhung the stream. But the fish was now in the rapid and was forced down by the foaming water. Being very unwilling to break the line or lose the fish, I went slowly into the rapid until the water reached the top of my long wading boots— another step and it was over them, but that salmon would not—indeed could not—stop. The water filled my boots at once, and felt very cold at first, but soon became warm, and each boot was converted into a warmish bath, in which the legs felt reasonably comfortable.

I was reckless now, and went on, step by step, until I was up to the waist, then to the arm-pits, and then I spread out one arm and swam off while with the other I held up the rod.

The rapid was strong but deep, so that nothing obstructed me till I reached the lower end, when a rock caught my legs and threw me into a horizontal position, with the rod flat on the water. I was thrown against the bank, where my Norwegian boy was standing mouth open, eyes blazing, and hand extended to help me out.

When I stood panting on the bank, I found that the fish was still on and still inclined to descend, but I found that I could not follow, for my legs were heavy as lead—the boots being full of water. To take the latter off in a hurry and empty them was impossible. To think of losing the fish after all was maddening. Suddenly a happy thought struck me. Handing the rod to the boy I lay down on my back, cocked my legs in the air, and the water ran like a deluge out at the back of my neck! Much relieved, I resumed the rod, but now I found that the fish had taken to sulking.

This sulking is very perplexing, for the fish bores its nose into some deep spot below a stone, and refuses to budge. Pulling him this way and that way had no effect. Jerking him was useless. Even throwing stones at him was of no avail. I know not how long he kept me there, but at last I lost patience, and resolved to force him out, or break the line. But the line was so good and strong that it caused the rod to show symptoms of giving way.

Just then it struck me that as there were several posts of an old weir in the middle of the stream, he must have twisted the line round one of these, broken himself off and left me attached to it! I made up my mind therefore to wade out to the old weir, and unwind the line, and gave the rod to the boy to hold while I did so.

The water was deep. It took me nearly up to the neck before I reached the shallow just above the posts, but, being thoroughly wet, that did not matter.

On reaching the post, and unwinding the line, I found to my surprise that the fish was still there. At first I thought of letting go the line, and leaving the boy to play him; "but," thought I, "the boy will be sure to lose him," so I held on to the line, and played it with my hands. Gradually the fish was tired out. I drew him slowly to my side, and gaffed him in four feet of water.

Even then I was not sure of him, for when I got him under one arm he wriggled violently, so that it was difficult to wade ashore with him. In this difficulty I took him to a place where the shoal in the middle of the stream was about three inches deep. There I lay down on him, picked up a stone and hammered his head with it, while the purling water rippled pleasantly over my face.

The whole of this operation took me upwards of two hours. It will be seen, therefore, that fishing in Norway, as I have said, cannot be called "the gentle art."

One extremely interesting excursion that we made was to a place named the Esse Fjord. The natives here were very hospitable and kind. Besides that, they were fat! It would almost seem as if fat and good-humour were invariably united; for nearly all the natives of the Esse Fjord were good-humoured and stout!

The language at this place perplexed me not a little. Nevertheless the old proverb, "where there's a will there's a way," held good, for the way in which I conversed with the natives of that region was astounding even to myself.

One bluff, good-humoured fellow took me off to see his house and family. I may as well admit, here, that I am not a good linguist, and usually left our ladies to do the talking! But on this occasion I found myself, for the first time, alone with a Norwegian! fairly left to my own resources.

Well, I began by stringing together all the Norse I knew, (which wasn't much), and endeavoured to look as if I knew a great deal more. But I soon found that the list of sentences, which I had learned from Murray's Handbook, did not avail much in a lengthened conversation. My speech quickly degenerated into sounds that were almost unintelligible to either my new friend or myself! and I terminated at last in a mixture of bad Norse and broad Scotch. I have already remarked on the strong family-likeness between Norse and broad Scotch. Here are a few specimens.

They call a cow a coo! A house is a hoose, and a mouse is a moose! Gaae til land, is go to land, or go ashore. Tak ain stole is take a stool, or sit down. Vil du tak am dram? scarcely needs translation—will you take a dram! and the usual answer to that question is equally clear and emphatic—"Ya, jeg vil tak am dram!" One day our pilot saw the boat of a fisherman, (or fiskman), not far off. He knew we wanted fish, so, putting his hands to his mouth, he shouted "Fiskman! har du fisk to sell?" If you talk of bathing, they will advise you to "dook oonder;" and should a mother present her baby to you, she will call it her "smook barn"—her pretty bairn—smook being the Norse word for "pretty," and barn for child; and it is a curious fact, worthy of particular note, that all the mothers in Norway think their bairns smook—very smook! and they never hesitate to tell you so—why, I cannot imagine, unless it be that if you were not told you would not be likely to find it out for yourself.

Despite our difficulty of communication, my fat friend and I soon became very amicable and talkative. He told me no end of stories, of which I did not comprehend a sentence, but looked as if I did—smiled, nodded my head, and said "ya, ya,"—to which he always replied "ya, ya,"—waving his arms, and slapping his breast, and rolling his eyes, as he bustled along beside me towards his dwelling. The house was perched on a rock close to the water's edge. Here my host found another subject to expatiate upon and dance round, in the shape of his own baby, a soft, smooth, little imitation of himself, which lay sleeping in its crib, like a small cupid. The man was evidently extremely fond of this infant. He went quite into ecstasies about it; now gazing at it with looks of pensive admiration; anon, starting and looking at me as if to say, "Did you ever, in all your life, see such a beautiful cherub?" The man's enthusiasm was really catching—I began to feel quite a fatherly interest in the cherub myself.

"Oh!" he cried, in rapture, "det er smook barn!"

"Ya, ya," said I, "megit smook," (very pretty)—although I must confess that smoked bairn would have been nearer the mark, for it was as brown as a red-herring.

I spent an agreeable, though I must confess mentally confused, afternoon with this gentleman, who, (when he succeeded in tearing himself away from that much-loved and megit smook barn), introduced me to his two sisters, who were stout and good-humoured like himself. They treated me to a cup of excellent coffee, and to a good deal more of incomprehensible conversation. Altogether, the natives of the Esse Fjord made a deep impression on us, and we parted from their grand and gloomy but hospitable shores with much regret.

I had hoped, good reader, to have jotted down some more of my personal reminiscences of travel—in Algiers, the "Pirate City," at the Cape of Good Hope, and elsewhere—but bad health is not to be denied, and I find that I must hold my hand.

Perchance this may be no misfortune, for possibly the "garrulity of age" is descending on me!

Before closing this sketch, however, I would say briefly, that in all my writings I have always tried—how far successfully I know not—to advance the cause of Truth and Light, and to induce my readers to put their trust in the love of God our Saviour, for this life as well as the life to come.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE BURGLARS AND THE PARSON.

A Country mansion in the south of England. The sun rising over a laurel-hedge, flooding the ivy-covered walls with light, and blazing in at the large bay-window of the dining-room.

"Take my word for it, Robin, if ever this 'ouse is broke into, it will be by the dinin'-room winder."

So spake the gardener of the mansion—which was also the parsonage—to his young assistant as they passed one morning in front of the window in question. "For why?" he continued; "the winder is low, an' the catches ain't overstrong, an there's no bells on the shutters, an' it lies handy to the wall o' the back lane."

To this Robin made no response, for Robin was young and phlegmatic. He was also strong.

The gardener, Simon by name, was not one of the prophets—though in regard to the weather and morals he considered himself one—but if any person had chanced to overhear the conversation of two men seated in a neighbouring public-house that morning, that person would have inclined to give the gardener credit for some sort of second sight.

"Bill," growled one of the said men, over his beer, in a low, almost inaudible tone, "I've bin up to look at the 'ouse, an' the dinin'-room winder'll be as easy to open as a door on the latch. I had a good look at it."

"You are the man for cheek an' pluck," growled the other man, over his beer, with a glance of admiration at his comrade. "How ever did you manage it, Dick?"

"The usual way, in course. Comed it soft over the 'ousemaid; said I was a gardener in search of a job, an' would she mind tellin' me where the head-gardener was? You see, Bill, I had twigged him in front o' the 'ouse five minutes before. 'I don't know as he's got any odd jobs to give 'ee,' says she; 'but he's in the front garden at this minute. If you goes round, you'll find him.' 'Hall right, my dear,' says I; an' away I goes right round past the dinin'-room winder, where I stops an' looks about, like as if I was awful anxious to find somebody. In coorse I glanced in, an' saw the fastenin's.

"They couldn't keep out a babby! Sideboard all right at the t'other end, with a lookin'-glass over it—to help folk, I fancy, to see what they look like w'en they're a-eatin' their wittles. Anyhow, it helped me to see the gardener comin' up one o' the side walks; so I wheels about double quick, an' looked pleased to see him.

"'Hallo!' cries he.

"'I was lookin' for you,' says I, quite easy like.

"'Did you expect to find me in the dinin'-room?' says he.

"'Not just that,' says I, 'but it's nat'ral for a feller to look at a 'andsome room w'en he chances to pass it.'

"'Ah,' says he, in a sort o' way as I didn't quite like. 'What d'ee want wi' me?'

"'I wants a job,' says I.

"'Are you a gardener?' he axed.

"'Yes—leastwise,' says I, 'I've worked a goodish bit in gardings in my time, an' can turn my 'and to a'most anythink.'

"'Oh,' says he. 'Look 'ere, my man, what d'ee call that there tree?' He p'inted to one close alongside.

"'That?' says I. 'Well, it—it looks uncommon like a happle.'

"'Do it?' says he. 'Now look 'ere, you be off as fast as your legs can take you, or I'll set the 'ousedog at 'ee.'

"W'en he said that, Bill, I do assure you, lad, that my experience in the ring seemed to fly into my knuckles, an' it was as much as ever I could do to keep my left off his nob and my right out of his breadbasket. But I restrained myself. If there's one thing I'm proud of, Bill, it's the wirtue o' self-restraint in the way o' business. I wheeled about, held up my nose, an' walked off wi' the air of a dook. You see, I didn't want for to have no more words wi' the gardener,—for why? because I'd seen all I wanted to see—d'ee see? But there was one—no, two—things I saw which it was as well I did see."

"An' what was they?" asked Bill.

"Two statters."

"An' what are statters?"

"Man alive I don't ye know? It's them things that they make out o' stone, an' marable, an' chalk—sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes babbies, an' mostly with no clo'es on to speak of—"

"Oh! I know; but I call 'em statoos. Fire away, Dick; what see'd you about the statoos?"

"Why, I see'd that they wasn't made in the usual way of stone or chalk, but of iron. I have heerd say that sodgers long ago used to fight in them sort o' dresses, though I don't believe it myself. Anyhow, there they was, the two of 'em, one on each side of the winder, that stiff that they could stand without nobody inside of 'em, an' one of 'em with a big thing on his shoulder, as if he wor ready to smash somebody over the head. I thought to myself if you an' me, Bill, had come on 'em unbeknown like, we'd ha' got such a start as might have caused us to make a noise. But I hadn't time to think much, for it was just then I got sight o' the gardener."

"Now my plan is," continued Dick, swigging off his beer, and lowering his voice to a still more confidential tone, as he looked cautiously round, "my plan is to hang about here till dark, then take to the nearest plantation, an' wait till the moon goes down, which will be about two o'clock i' the mornin'—when it will be about time for us to go in and win."

"All right," said Bill, who was not loquacious.

But Bill was mistaken, for it was all wrong.

There was indeed no one in the public at that early hour of the day to overhear the muttered conversation of the plotters, and the box in which they sat was too remote from the bar to permit of their words being overheard, but there was a broken pane of glass in a window at their elbow, with a seat outside immediately below it. Just before the burglars entered the house they had observed this seat, and noticed that no one was on it; but they failed to note that a small, sleepy-headed pot-boy lay at full length underneath it, basking in the sunshine and meditating on nothing—that is, nothing in particular.

At first little Pat paid no attention to the monotonous voices that growled softly over his head, but one or two words that he caught induced him to open his eyes very wide, rise softly from his lair and sit down on the seat, cock one ear intelligently upward, and remain so absolutely motionless that Dick, had he seen him, might have mistaken him for a very perfect human "statter."

When little Pat thought that he had heard enough, he slid off the seat, crawled close along the side of the house, doubled round the corner, rose up, and ran off towards the parsonage as fast as his little legs could go.

The Reverend Theophilus Stronghand was a younger son of a family so old that those families which "came over with the Conqueror" were mere moderns in comparison. Its origin, indeed, is lost in those mists of antiquity which have already swallowed up so many millions of the human race, and seem destined to go on swallowing, with ever-increasing appetite, to the end of time. The Stronghands were great warriors—of course. They could hardly have developed into a family otherwise. The Reverend Theophilus, however, was a man of peace. We do not say this to his disparagement. He was by no means a degenerate son of the family. Physically he was powerful, broad and tall, and his courage was high; but spiritually he was gentle, and in manner urbane. He drew to the church as naturally as a duck draws to the water, and did not by any means grudge to his elder brothers the army, the navy, and the Bar.

One of his pet theories was, to overcome by love, and he carried this theory into practice with considerable success.

Perhaps no one put this theory to the test more severely or frequently than his only son Harry. War had been that young gentleman's chief joy in life from the cradle. He began by shaking his fat fists at the Universe in general. War-to-the-knife with nurse was the chronic condition of a stormy childhood. Intermittent warfare with his only sister Emmie chequered the sky of his early boyhood, and a decided tendency to disobey wrung the soul of his poor mother, and was the cause of no little anxiety to his father; while mischief, pure and simple for its own sake, was the cherished object of his life. Nevertheless, Harry Stronghand was a lovable boy, and love was the only power that could sway him.

The lad grew better as he grew older. Love began to gain the day, and peace began—slowly at first—to descend on the parsonage; but the desire for mischief—which the boy named "fun"—had not been quite dislodged at the time we write of. As Harry had reached the age of fifteen, feared nothing, and was quick-witted and ingenious, his occasional devices not only got him into frequent hot water, but were the source of some amusement to his people—and he still pretty well ruled his easy-going father and the house generally with a rod of iron.

It was to Harry Stronghand that little Pat directed his steps, after overhearing the conversation which we have related. Pat knew that the son of the parsonage was a hero, and, in his opinion, the most intelligent member of the family, and the best fitted to cope with the facts which he had to reveal. He met the object of his search on the road.

"Plaze yer honour," said Pat—who was an Irishman, and therefore "honoured" everybody—"there's two tramps at the public as is plottin' to break into your house i' the mornin'."

"You don't mean it, do you?" returned Harry, with a smile and raised eyebrows.

"That's just what I do, yer honour. I heard 'em reel off the whole plan."

Hereupon the boy related all that he knew to the youth, who leaned against a gate and nodded his curly head approvingly until the story was finished.

"You've not mentioned this to any one, have you, Pat?"

"Niver a sowl but yersilf, sir."

"You're a sensible boy, Pat. Here's a shilling for you—and, look here, Pat, if you keep dark upon the matter till after breakfast to-morrow and don't open your lips to a living soul about it, I'll give you half a crown."

"Thank yer honour."

"Now mind—no hints to the police; no remarks to your master. Be dumb, in fact, from this moment, else I won't give you a penny."

"Sure I've forgot all about it already, sir," said the boy, with a wink so expressive that Harry felt his word to be as good as his bond, and went back to the parsonage laughing.

Arrived there, he went in search of his sister, but found that she was out.

"Just as well," he muttered, descending to the dining-room with his hands deep in his pockets, a pleased expression on his handsome mouth, and a stern frown on his brows. "It would not be safe to make a confidant of her in so delicate a matter. No, I'll do it all alone. But how to do it? That is the question. Shall I invite the aid of the police? Perish the thought! Shall I consult the Pater? Better not. The dear, self-devoted man might take it out of my hands altogether."

Harry paused in profound meditation. He was standing near the window at the time, with the "statters" on either hand of him.

They were complete suits of armour—one representing a knight in plate armour, the other a Crusader in chain-mail. Both had been in the family since two of the Stronghand warriors had followed Richard of the Lion Heart to the East. As the eldest brother of the Reverend Theophilus was in India, the second was on the deep, and the lawyer was dead, the iron shells of the ancient warriors had naturally found a resting-place in the parsonage, along with several family portraits, which seemed to show that the males of the race were prone to look very stern, and to stand in the neighbourhood of pillars and red curtains in very dark weather, while the females were addicted to old lace, scant clothing, and benign smiles. One of the warriors stood contemplatively leaning on his sword. The other rested a heavy mace on his shoulder, as if he still retained a faint hope that something might turn up to justify his striking yet one more blow.

"What would you advise, old man?" said Harry, glancing up at the Crusader with the mace.

The question was put gravely, for, ever since he could walk or do anything, the boy had amused himself by putting free-and-easy questions to the suits of armour, or defying them to mortal combat. As he was true to ancient friendships, he had acquired the habit of giving the warriors an occasional nod or word of recognition long after he had ceased to play with them.

"Shades of my ancestors!" exclaimed Harry with sudden animation, gazing earnestly at the Crusader on his right, "the very thing! I'll do it."

That evening, after tea, he went to his father's study.

"May I sit up in the dining-room to-night, father, till two in the morning?"

"Well, it will puzzle you to do that to-night, my son; but you may if you have a good reason."

"My reason is that I have a problem—a very curious problem—to work out, and as I positively shan't be able to sleep until I've done it, I may just as well sit up as not."

"Do as you please, Harry; I shall probably be up till that hour myself— if not later—for unexpected calls on my time have prevented the preparation of a sermon about which I have had much anxious thought of late."

"Indeed, father!" remarked the son, in a sympathetic tone, on observing that the Reverend Theophilus passed his hand somewhat wearily over his brow. "What may be your text?"

"'Be gentle, showing meekness to all men,'" answered the worthy man, with an abstracted faraway look, as if he were wrestling in anticipation with the seventh head.

"Well, good-night, father, and please don't think it necessary to come in upon me to see how I am getting on. I never can work out a difficult problem if there is a chance of interruption."

"All right, my son—good-night."

"H'm," thought Harry, as he returned to the dining-room in a meditative mood; "I am afraid, daddy, that you'll find it hard to be gentle to some men to-night! However, we shall see."

Ringing the bell, he stood with his back to the fire, gazing at the ceiling. The summons was answered by the gardener, who also performed the functions of footman and man-of-all-work at the parsonage.

"Simon, I am going out, and may not be home till late. I want either you or Robin to sit up for me."

"Very well, sir."

"And," continued the youth, with an air of offhand gravity, "I shall be obliged to sit up working well into the morning, so you may have a cup of strong coffee ready for me. Wait until I ring for it—perhaps about two in the morning. I shall sit in the dining-room, but don't bring it until I ring. Mind that, for I can't stand interruption—as you know."

"Yes, sir."

Simon knew his imperious young master too well to make any comment on his commands. He returned, therefore, to the kitchen, told the cook of the order he had received to sit up and take Master Harry's coffee to him when he should ring, and made arrangements with Robin to sit up and help him to enliven his vigil with a game of draughts.

Having thus made his arrangements, Harry Stronghand went out to enjoy a walk. He was a tremendous walker—thought nothing of twenty or thirty miles, and rather preferred to walk at night than during the day, especially when moon and stars were shining. Perhaps it was a dash of poetry in his nature that induced this preference.

About midnight he returned, went straight to the dining-room, and, entering, shut the door, while Simon retired to his own regions and resumed his game with Robin.

A small fire was burning in the dining-room grate, the flickering flames of which leaped up occasionally, illuminated the frowning ancestors on the walls, and gleamed on the armour of the ancient knight and the Crusader.

Walking up to the latter, Harry looked at him sternly; but as he looked, his mouth relaxed into a peculiar smile, and displayed his magnificent teeth as far back as the molars. Then he went to the window, saw that the fastenings were right, and drew down the blinds. He did not think it needful to close the shutters, but he drew a thick heavy curtain across the opening of the bay-window, so as to shut it off effectually from the rest of the room. This curtain was so arranged that the iron sentinels were not covered by it, but were left in the room, as it were, to mount guard over the curtain.

This done, the youth turned again to the Crusader and mounted behind him on the low pedestal on which he stood. Unfastening his chain-mail armour at the back, he opened him up, so to speak, and went in. The suit fitted him fairly well, for Harry was a tall, strapping youth for his years, and when he looked out at the aperture of the headpiece and smiled grimly, he seemed by no means a degenerate warrior.

Returning to the fireplace, he sat down in an easy chair and buried himself in a favourite author.

One o'clock struck. Harry glanced up, nodded pleasantly, as if on familiar terms with Time, and resumed his author. The timepiece chimed the quarters. This was convenient. It prevented anxious watchfulness. The half-hour chimed. Harry did not move. Then the three-quarters rang out in silvery tones. Thereupon Harry arose, shut up his author, blew out his light, drew back the heavy curtains, and, returning to the arm-chair sat down to listen in comparative darkness.

The moon by that time had set and darkness profound had settled down upon that part of the universe. The embers in the grate were just sufficient to render objects in the room barely visible and ghost-like.

Presently there was the slightest imaginable sound near the bay-window. It might have been the Crusader's ghost, but that was not likely, for at the moment something very like Harry's ghost flitted across the room and entered into the warrior.

Again the sound was heard, more decidedly than before. It was followed by a sharp click as the inefficient catch was forced back. Then the sash began to rise, softly, slowly—an eighth of an inch at a time. During this process Harry remained invisible and inactive; Paterfamilias in the study addressed himself to the sixth head of his discourse, and the gardener with his satellite hung in silent meditation over the draught-board in the kitchen.

After the sash stopped rising, the centre blind was moved gently to one side, and the head of Dick appeared with a furtive expression on the countenance. For a few seconds his eyes roved around without much apparent purpose; then, as they became accustomed to the dim light, a gleam of intelligence shot from them; the rugged head turned to one side; the coarse mouth turned still more to one side in its effort to address some one behind, and, in a whisper that would have been hoarse had it been loud enough, Dick said—

"Hall right, Bill. We won't need matches. Keep clear o' the statters in passin'."

As he spoke, Dick's hobnailed boot appeared, his corduroy leg followed, and next moment he stood in the room with a menacing look and attitude and a short thick bludgeon in his knuckly hand. Bill quickly stood beside him. After another cautious look round, the two advanced with extreme care—each step so carefully taken that the hobnails fell like rose-leaves on the carpet. Feeling that the "coast was clear," Dick advanced with more confidence, until he stood between the ancient warriors, whose pedestals raised them considerably above his head.

At that moment there was a sharp click, as of an iron hinge. Dick's heart seemed to leap into his throat. Before he could swallow it, the iron mace of the Crusader descended with stunning violence on his crown.

Well was it for the misguided man that morning that he happened to have purchased a new and strong billycock the day before, else would that mace have sent him—as it had sent many a Saracen of old—to his long home. The blow effectually spoilt the billycock, however, and stretched its owner insensible on the floor.

The other burglar was too close behind his comrade to permit of a second blow being struck. The lively Crusader, however, sprang upon him, threw his mailed arms round his neck, and held him fast.

And now began a combat of wondrous ferocity and rare conditions. The combatants were unequally matched, for the man was huge and muscular, while the youth was undeveloped and slender, but what the latter lacked in brute force was counterbalanced by the weight of his armour, his youthful agility, and his indomitable pluck. By a deft movement of his legs he caused Bill to come down on his back, and fell upon him with all his weight plus that of the Crusader. Annoyed at this, and desperately anxious to escape before the house should be alarmed, Bill delivered a roundabout blow with his practised fist that ought to have driven in the skull of his opponent, but it only scarified the man's knuckles on the Crusader's helmet. He tried another on the ribs, but the folds of chain-mail rendered that abortive. Then the burglar essayed strangulation, but there again the folds of mail foiled him. During these unavailing efforts the unconscious Dick came in for a few accidental raps and squeezes as he lay prone beside them.

Meanwhile, the Crusader adopted the plan of masterly inactivity, by simply holding on tight and doing nothing. He did not shout for help, because, being bull-doggish in his nature, he preferred to fight in silent ferocity. Exasperated as well as worn by this method, Bill became reckless, and made several wild plunges to regain his feet. He did not succeed, but he managed to come against the pedestal of the knight in mail with great violence. The iron warrior lost his balance, toppled over, and came down on the combatants with a hideous crash, suggestive of coal-scuttles and fire-irons.

Sleep, sermons, and draughts could no longer enchain! Mrs Stronghand awoke, buried her startled head in the bed-clothes, and quaked. Emmie sprang out of bed and huddled on her clothes, under the impression that fire-engines were at work. The Reverend Theophilus leaped up, seized the study poker and a lamp, and rushed towards the dining-room. Overturning the draught-board, Simon grasped a rolling-pin, Robin the tongs, and both made for the same place. They all collided at the door, burst it open, and advanced to the scene of war.

It was a strange scene! Bill and the Crusader, still struggling, were giving the remains of the other knight a lively time of it, and Dick, just beginning to recover, was sitting with a dazed look in a sea of iron debris.

"That's right; hit him hard, father!" cried Harry, trying to look round.

"No, don't, sir," cried the burglar; "I gives in."

"Let my son—let the Crusa—let him go, then," said the Reverend gentleman, raising his poker.

"I can't, sir, 'cause he won't let me go."

"All right, I'll let you go now," said Harry, unclasping his arms and rising with a long-drawn sigh. "Now you. Come to the light and let's have a look at you."

So saying, the lad thrust his mailed hand into the burglar's neckerchief, and assisted by the Reverend Theophilus, led his captive to the light which had been put on the table. The gardener and Robin did the same with Dick. For one moment it seemed as if the two men meditated a rush for freedom, for they both glanced at the still open window, but the stalwart Simon with the rolling-pin and the sturdy Robin with the tongs stood between them and that mode of exit, while the Crusader with his mace and huge Mr Stronghand with the study poker stood on either side of them. They thought better of it. "Bring two chairs here," said the clergyman, in a gentle yet decided tone.

Robin and Harry obeyed—the latter wondering what "the governor was going to be up to."

"Sit down," said the clergyman, quietly and with much solemnity.

The burglars humbly obeyed.

"Now, my men, I am going to preach you a sermon."

"That's right, father," interrupted Harry, in gleeful surprise. "Give it 'em hot. Don't spare them. Put plenty of brimstone into it."

But, to Harry's intense disgust, his father put no brimstone into it at all. On the contrary, without availing himself of heads or subdivisions, he pointed out in a few plain words the evil of their course, and the only method of escaping from that evil. Then he told them that penal servitude for many years was their due according to the law of the land.

"Now," said he, in conclusion, "you are both of you young and strong men who may yet do good service and honest work in the land. I have no desire to ruin your lives. Penal servitude might do so. Forgiveness may save you—therefore I forgive you! There is the open window. You are at liberty to go."

The burglars had been gazing at their reprover with wide-open eyes. They now turned and gazed at each other with half-open mouths; then they again turned to the clergyman as if in doubt, but with a benignant smile he again pointed to the open window.

They rose like men in a dream, went softly across the room, stepped humbly out, and melted into darkness.

The parson's conduct may not have been in accordance with law, but it was eminently successful, for it is recorded that those burglars laid that sermon seriously to heart—at all events, they never again broke into that parsonage, and never again was there occasion for Harry to call in the services of the ancient knight or the Crusader.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

JIM GREELY, THE NORTH SEA SKIPPER.

When Nellie Sumner married James Greely—the strapping skipper of a Yarmouth fishing-smack—there was not a prettier girl in all the town, at least so said, or thought, most of the men and many of the women who dwelt near her. Of course there were differences of opinion on the point, but there was no doubt whatever about it in the mind of James Greely, who was overwhelmed with astonishment, as well as joy, at what he styled his "luck in catching such a splendid wife."

And there was good ground for his strong feeling, for Nellie was neat, tidy, and good-humoured, as well as good-looking, and she made Jim's home as neat and tidy as herself.

"There's always sunshine inside o' my house," said Greely to his mates once, "no matter what sort o' weather there may be outside."

Ere long a squall struck that house—a squall that moved the feelings of our fisherman more deeply than the fiercest gale he had ever faced on the wild North Sea, for it was the squall of a juvenile Jim! From that date the fisherman was wont to remark, with a quiet smile of satisfaction, that he had got moonlight now, as well as sunshine, in the Yarmouth home.

The only matter that distressed the family at first was that the father saw so little of his lightsome home; for, his calling being that of a deep-sea smacksman, or trawler, by far the greater part of our fisherman's rugged life was spent on the restless ocean. Two months at sea and eight days ashore was the unvarying routine of Jim's life, summer and winter, all the year round. That is to say, about fifty days on shore out of the year, and three hundred and fifteen days on what the cockney greengrocer living next door to Jim styled the "'owlin' deep."

And, truly, the greengrocer was not far wrong, for the wild North Sea does a good deal of howling, off and on, during the year, to say nothing of whistling and shrieking and other boisterous practices when the winter gales are high.

But a cloud began to descend, very gradually at first, on James Greely's dwelling, for a demon—a very familiar one on the North Sea—had been twining his arms for a considerable time round the stalwart fisherman.

At the time of Jim's marriage those mission-ships of the Dutch—and, we may add, of the devil—named copers, or floating grog-shops, were plying their deadly traffic in strong drink full swing among the trawlers of the North Sea. Through God's blessing the mission-ships of the Cross have now nearly driven the copers off the sea, but at the time we write of the Dutchmen had it all their own way, and many a splendid man, whom toil, cold, hardship, and fierce conflict with the elements could not subdue, was laid low by the poisonous spirits of the coper. Greely went to the copers at first to buy tobacco, but, being a hearty, sociable fellow, he had no objection to take an occasional friendly dram. Gradually, imperceptibly, he became enslaved. He did not give way at once. He was too much of a man for that. Many a deadly battle had he with the demon—known only to himself and God— but as he fought in his own strength, of course he failed; failed again and again, until he finally gave way to despair.

Poor Nellie was quick to note the change, and tried, with a brave heart at first but a sinking heart at last, to save him, but without success. The eight days which used to be spent in the sunny home came at last to be spent in the Green Dragon public-house; and in course of time Nellie was taught by bitter experience that if her husband, on his periodical return from the sea, went straight from the smack to the public-house, it was little that she would see of him during his spell on shore. Even curly-headed juvenile Jimmie—his father's pride—ceased to overcome the counter-attraction of strong drink.

Is it to be wondered at that Nellie lost some of her old characteristics—that, the wages being spent on drink, she found it hard to provide the mere necessaries of life for herself and her boy, and that she finally gave up the struggle to keep either person or house as neat and orderly as of yore, while a haggard look and lines of care began to spoil the beauty of her countenance? Or is it a matter for surprise that her temper began to give way under the strain?

"You are ruining yourself and killing me," said the sorely-tried wife one evening—the last evening of a spell on shore—as Jim staggered into the once sunny home to bid his wife good-bye.

It was the first time that Nellie had spoken roughly to him. He made no answer at first. He was angry. The Green Dragon had begun to demoralise him, and the reproof which ought to have melted only hardened him.

"The last of the coals are gone," continued the wife with bitterness in her tone, "and there's scarcely enough of bread in the house for a good supper to Jimmie. You should be ashamed of yourself, Jim."

A glare of drunken anger shot fiercely from the fisherman's eyes. No word did he utter. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the house and shut the door after him with cannon-shot violence.

"O Jim—stop Jim!" burst from timid Nellie. "I'll never—"

She ceased abruptly, for the terrified Jimmie was clinging to her skirts, and her husband was beyond the reach of her voice. Falling on her knees, she prayed to God passionately for pardon. It was their first quarrel. She ended by throwing herself on her bed and bursting into a fit of sobbing that not only horrified but astounded little Jim. To see his mother sobbing wildly while he was quiet and grave was a complete inversion of all his former experiences. As if to carry out the spirit of the situation, he proceeded to act the part of comforter by stroking his mother's brown hair with his fat little hand until the burst of grief subsided.

"Dare, you's dood now, muzzer. Tiss me!" he said.

Nellie flung her arms round the child and kissed him fervently.

Meanwhile James Greely's smack, the Dolphin, was running down the Yare before a stiff breeze, and Jim himself had commenced the most momentous, and, in one sense, disastrous voyage of his life. As he stood at the tiller, guiding his vessel with consummate skill out into the darkening waters, his heart felt like lead. He would have given all he possessed to recall the past hour, to have once again the opportunity of bidding Nellie good-bye as he had been wont to do in the days that were gone. But it was too late. Wishes and repentance, he knew, avail nothing to undo a deed that is done.

Jim toiled with that branch of the North Sea fleets which is named the "Short Blue." It was trawling at a part of the North Sea called "Botney Gut" at that time, but our fisherman had been told that it was fishing at another part named the "Silverpits." It blew hard from the nor'west, with much snow, so that Jim took a long time to reach his destination. But no "Short Blue" fleet was to be seen at the Silverpits.

To the eyes of ordinary men the North Sea is a uniform expanse of water, calm or raging as the case may be. Not so to the deep-sea trawler. Jim's intimate knowledge of localities, his sounding-lead and the nature of the bottom, etcetera, enabled him at any time to make for, and surely find, any of the submarine banks. But fleets, though distinguished by a name, have no "local habitation." They may be on the "Dogger Bank" to-day, on the "Swarte Bank" or the "Great Silverpits" to-morrow. With hundreds of miles of open sea around, and neither milestone nor finger-post to direct, a lost fleet is not unlike a lost needle in a haystack. Fortunately Jim discovered a brother smacksman looking, like himself, for his own fleet. Being to windward the brother ran down to him.

"What cheer O! Have 'ee seen anything o' the Red Cross Fleet?" roared the skipper, with the power of a brazen trumpet.

"No," shouted Jim, in similar tones. "I'm lookin' for the Short Blue."

"I passed it yesterday, bearin' away for Botney Gut."

"'Bout ship" went Jim, and away with a stiff breeze on his quarter. He soon found the fleet—a crowd of smacks, all heading in the same direction, with their huge trawling nets down and bending over before what was styled a good "fishing-breeze." It requires a stiff breeze to haul a heavy net, with its forty or fifty feet beam and other gear, over the rough bottom of the North Sea. With a slight breeze and the net down a smack would be simply anchored by the stern to her own gear.

Down went Jim's net, and, like a well-drilled fisherman, he fell into line. It was a rough grey day with a little snow falling, which whitened all the ropes and covered the decks with slush.

Greely's crew had become demoralised, like their skipper. There were five men and a fair-haired boy. All could drink and swear except the boy. Charlie was the only son of his mother, and she was a good woman, besides being a widow. Charlie was the smack's cook.

"Grub's ready," cried the boy, putting his head up the hatchway after the gear was down.

He did not name the meal. Smacksmen have a way of taking food irregularly at all or any hours, when circumstances permit, and are easy about the name so long as they get it, and plenty of it. A breakfast at mid-day after a night of hardest toil might be regarded indifferently as a luncheon or an early dinner.

Black Whistler, the mate, who stood at the helm, pronounced a curse upon the weather by way of reply to Charlie's summons.

"You should rather bless the ladies on shore that sent you them wursted mittens an' 'elmet, you ungrateful dog," returned the boy with a broad grin, for he and Whistler were on familiar terms.

The man growled something inaudible, while his mates went below to feed.

Each North Sea trawling fleet acts unitedly under an "admiral." It was early morning when the signal was given by rocket to haul up the nets. Between two and three hours at the capstan—slow, heavy toil, with every muscle strained to the utmost—was the result of the admiral's order. Bitter cold; driving snow; cutting flashes of salt spray, and dark as Erebus save for the light of a lantern lashed to the mast. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the seemingly everlasting round went on, with the clank of heavy sea-boots and the rustle of hard oil-skins, and the sound of labouring breath as accompaniment; while the endless cable came slowly up from the "vasty deep."

But everything comes to an end, even on the North Sea! At last the great beam appears and is secured. With a sigh of relief the capstan bars are thrown down, and the men vary their toil by clawing up the net with scarred and benumbed fingers. It is heavy work, causes much heaving and gasping, and at times seems almost too much for all hands to manage.

Again Black Whistler pronounces a malediction on things in general, and is mockingly reminded by the boy-cook that he ought to bless the people as sends him wursted cuffs to save his wrists from sea-blisters.

"Seems to me we've got a hold of a bit o' Noah's ark," growled one of the hands, as something black and big begins to appear.

He is partially right, for a bit of an old wreck is found to have been captured with a ton or so of fish. When this is disengaged the net comes in more easily, and the fish are dropped like a silver cataract on the wet deck.

One might imagine that there was rest for the fishermen now. Far from it. The fish had to be "cleaned"—i.e. gutted and the superfluous portions cut off and packed in boxes for the London market. The grey light of a bleak winter morning dawned before the work was finished. During the operation the third hand, Lively Dick, ran a fish-bone deeply into his hand, and laid a foundation for future trouble.

It was noon before the trunks, or fish-boxes, were packed. Then the little boat had to be launched over the side, loaded with fish, and ferried to one of the steamers which ply daily and regularly between Billingsgate and the fleets. Three men jumped into it and pushed off—a mere cockle-shell on a heaving flood, now dancing on a wave-crest, now lost to view in a water-valley.

"What's that?" said Whistler, as they pulled towards the steamer. "Looks bigger than the or'nary mission-ships."

"Why, that must be the noo hospital-ship, the Queen Victoria," answered Lively Dick, glancing over his shoulder at a large vessel, smack-rigged, which loomed up through the haze to leeward.

They had no time for further remark, for the great side of the steamer was by that time frowning over them. It was dangerous work they had to do. The steamer rolled heavily in the rough sea. The boat, among a dozen other boats, was soon attached to her by a strong rope. Men had to be athletes and acrobats in order to pass their fish-boxes from the leaping and plunging boats to the deck of the rolling steamer. The shouting and noise and bumping were tremendous. An awkward heave occasionally sent a box into the sea amid oaths and laughter. Jim's cargo was put safely on board, and the boat was about to cast off when a heavier lurch than usual caused Black Whistler to stagger. To save himself from plunging overboard he laid both hands on the gunwale of the boat—a dangerous thing to do at any time when alongside of a vessel. Before he could recover himself the boat went crashing against the steamer's iron side and the fisherman's hands were crushed. He fell back into the boat almost fainting with agony. No cry escaped him, however. Lively Dick saw the blood streaming, and while his mate shoved off the boat he wrapped a piece of canvas in a rough-and-ready fashion round the quivering hands.

"I'm done for this trip," groaned Whistler, "for this means go ashore— weeks in hospital—wages stopped, and wife and chicks starving."

"Never a bit, mate," said Dick; "didn't you know that the noo mission-ship does hospital work afloat and that they'll keep you aboard of her, and lend us one o' their hands till you're fit for work again?"

Whether poor Whistler believed, or understood, or was comforted by this we cannot say, for he made no reply and appeared to be almost overcome with pain. On reaching the Dolphin a signal of distress was made to the floating hospital, which at once bore down to them. The injured man was transferred to it, and there, in the pleasant airy cabin, Black Whistler made acquaintance with men who were anxious to cure his soul as well as his body. Up to this time he had resolutely declined to visit the mission-ships, but now, when a skilled medical man tenderly dressed his terrible wounds and a sympathetic skipper led him to a berth and supplied him with some warm coffee, telling him that he would be free to remain there without charge as long as was needed, and that meanwhile one of the mission hands would take his place in the Dolphin till he was able to resume work, his opinion of mission-ships and work underwent modification, and he began to think that mission crews were not such a bad lot after all.

Meanwhile Skipper Greely, leaving his man in the Queen Victoria, returned to his smack accompanied by George King, the new hand.

King's position was by no means an enviable one, for he found himself thus suddenly in the midst of a set of men who had no sympathy with him in religious matters, and whose ordinary habits and conversation rendered remonstrance almost unavoidable. Unwilling to render himself obnoxious at first, the man resolved to try the effect of music on his new shipmates. He happened to possess a beautiful tenor voice, and the first night—a calm bright one—while taking his turn at the helm, he sang in a soft sweet voice one after another of those hymns which Mr Sankey has rendered so popular. He began with "Come to the Saviour, make no delay," and the first effect on his mates, most of whom were below, was to arouse a feeling of contempt. But they could not resist the sweetness of the voice. In a few minutes they were perfectly silent, and listening with a species of fascination—each being wafted, both by words and music, to scenes on shore and to times when his spirit had not been so demoralised by sin.

Greely, in particular, was transported back to the sunny home in Yarmouth, and to the days of first-love, before the demon had gained the mastery and clouded the sunshine.

As the night wore on, a fog settled down over the North Sea, and the smacks of the Short Blue fleet began to blow their fog-horns, while the crews became more on the alert and kept a bright look-out.

Suddenly, and without warning, a dull beating sound was heard by the look-out on the Dolphin. Next moment a dark object like a phantom ship loomed out of the fog, and a wild cry arose as the men saw the bows of a huge ocean steamer coming apparently straight at them. The smack was absolutely helpless, without steering way. For an instant there was shouting on board the steamer, and she fell off slightly as she rushed into the small circle of the Dolphin's light. A tremendous crash followed, but the change of direction had been sufficient to prevent a fatal collision. Another moment and the great steamer was gone, while the little smack rocked violently from the blow as well as from the swell left in the steamer's wake.

This was but the beginning of a night of disaster. Skipper Greely and his men had scarcely recovered from the surprise of this incident when the fog lifted and quickly cleared away, revealing the Short Blue fleet floating all round with flapping sails, but it was observed also that a very dark cloud rested on the north-western horizon. Soon a stiffish breeze sprang up, and the scattered fleet drew together, lay on the same tack, and followed the lead of their admiral, to whom they looked for the signal to shoot the trawls. But instead of giving this order the admiral signalled to "lay-to."

Being disgusted as well as surprised that their leader was not going to fish, Jim Greely, being also exhausted by long watching, went below and turned in to have a sleep. He had not been long asleep when fair-haired Charlie came to tell him that Lively Dick, who acted as mate in Whistler's absence, wanted him on deck. He ran up at once.

"Looks like dirty weather, skipper," said Dick, pointing to windward.

"Right you are, lad," said Jim, and called all hands to close-reef.

This being done and everything made snug, the skipper again turned in, with orders to call him if things should get worse.

Soon after, Dick, who was at the helm, saw a squall bearing down on them, but did not think it worth while to call the skipper. It broke on them with a clap like thunder, but the good Dolphin stood the shock well, and Dick was congratulating himself when he saw a sea coming towards them, but sufficiently astern, he thought, to clear them. He was wrong. It broke aboard, right into the mainsail, cleared the deck, and hove the smack on her beam-ends.

This effectually aroused the skipper, who made desperate but at first ineffectual efforts to get out of his berth, for the water, which poured down the hatchway, washed gear, tackles, turpentine-tins, paint-pots, and nearly everything moveable from the iron locker on the weather-side down to leeward, and blocked up the openings. Making another effort he cleared all this away, and sprang out of the berth, which was half full of water. Pitchy darkness enshrouded him, for the water had put out the lights as well as the fire. Just then the vessel righted a little.

"Are you all right on deck?" shouted Jim, as he scrambled up the hatchway.

"All right, as far as I can see," answered Dick.

"Hold on, I've a bottle o' matches in my bunk," cried the skipper, returning to the flooded cabin. Fortunately the matches were dry; a light was struck, and a candle and lamp lighted. The scene revealed was not re-assuring. The water in the cabin was knee-deep. A flare, made of a woollen scarf soaked in paraffin, was lighted on deck, and showed that the mainsail had been split, the boat hopelessly damaged, and part of the lee bulwarks broken. The mast also was leaning aft, the forestay having been carried away. A few minutes later Lively Dick went tumbling down into the cabin all of a heap, to avoid the mast as it went crashing over the side in such a way as to prevent the use of the pumps, and carrying the mizzenmast along with it.

"Go to work with buckets, boys, or she'll sink," shouted the skipper, himself setting the example, for the ballast had shifted and the danger was great. Meanwhile George King seized an axe and cut away the rigging that held on to the wrecked masts, and fair-haired Charlie laboured like a hero to clear the pumps. The rays of the cabin lights did not reach the deck, so that much of the work had to be done in what may be styled darkness visible, while the little vessel kicked about like a wild thing in the raging sea, and the torn canvas flapped with a horrible noise. Pitiless wind, laden with sleet, howled over them as if thirsting impatiently for the fishermen's lives. At last they succeeded in clearing the pumps, and worked them with untiring energy for hours, but could not tell how many, for the thick end of a marline-spike had been driven through the clock-face and stopped it.

It was still dark when they managed to rig up a jury-mast on the stump of the old one and hoist a shred of sail. George King was ordered to the tiller. As he passed Greely he said in a cheerful voice, "Trust in the Lord, skipper, He can bring us out o' worse than this."

It might have been half an hour later when another sea swept the deck. Jim took shelter under the stump of the mast and held on for dear life. Charlie got inside the coil of the derrick-fall and so was saved, while the others dived into the cabin. When that sea had passed they found no one at the tiller. Poor King had been washed overboard. Nothing whatever could be done for him, even if he had been seen, but the greedy sea had swallowed him, and he was taken to swell with his tuneful voice the company of those who sing on high the praises of redeeming love.

The sea which swept him into eternity also carried away the jury-mast, and as the smack was now a mere wreck, liable to drift on shore if the gale should continue long, Jim let down an anchor, after removing its stock so that it might drag on the bottom and retard the drifting while it kept the vessel's head to the sea.

A watch was then set, and the rest of the crew went below to wait and wish for daybreak! It was a dreary vigil under appalling circumstances, for although the smack had not actually sprung a leak there was always the danger of another sea overwhelming and altogether sinking her. Her crew sat there for hours utterly helpless and literally facing death. Fortunately their matches had escaped the water, so that they were able to kindle a fire in the stove and obtain a little warmth as well as make a pot of tea and eat some of their sea-soaked biscuit.

It is wonderful how man can accommodate himself to circumstances. No sooner had the crew in this wreck felt the stimulating warmth of the hot tea than they began to spin yarns! not indeed of a fanciful kind—they were too much solemnised for that—but yarns of their experience of gales in former times.

"It minds me o' this wery night last year," said Lively Dick, endeavouring to light his damp pipe. "I was mate o' the Beauty at the time. We was workin' wi' the Short Blues on the Dogger, when a tremendous squall struck us, an' it began to snow that thick we could scarce see the end o' the jib-boom. Well, the gale came on in real arnest before long, so we had to lay-to all that night. When it came day we got some sail set and I went below to have a hot pot o' tea when the skipper suddenly sang out 'Jump up here, Dick!' an' I did jump up, double quick, to find that we was a'most runnin' slap into a dismasted craft. We shoved the tiller hard a-starboard and swung round as if we was on a swivel, goin' crash through the rackage alongside an' shavin' her by a hair. We could just see through the snow one of her hands choppin' away at the riggin', and made out that her name was the Henry and Thomas."

"An' did ye see nothin' more of 'er arter that?" asked the boy Charlie with an eager look.

"Nothin' more. She was never heard of arter that mornin'."

While the men were thus talking, the watch on deck shouted that one of the mission-ships was close alongside. Every one ran on deck to hail her, for they stood much in need of assistance, two of their water-casks having been stove in and everything in the hold turned topsy-turvy— beef, potatoes, flour, all mixed up in horrible confusion. Just then another sea came on board, and the crew had to dive again to the cabin for safety. That sea carried away the boat and the rest of the starboard bulwarks, besides starting a plank, and letting the water in at a rate which the pumps could not keep down.

Quickly the mission-ship loomed up out of the grey snow-cloud and ran past.

"You'll want help!" shouted the mission skipper.

"Ay, we do," shouted Jim Greely in reply. "We're sinkin', and our boat's gone."

An arm thrown up indicated that the words were understood. A few minutes later and the crew of the Dolphin saw the mission crew launching their little boat. With, such a sea running the venture was perilous in the extreme, but when the mission skipper said "Who'll go?" he had no lack of volunteers. The boat was manned at once, and the crew of the Dolphin were rescued a few minutes before the Dolphin herself went head-foremost to the bottom. Just as they got safely on deck the mission-ship herself shipped a heavy sea, which washed several of the men into the lee scuppers. They jumped up immediately—some with "Thank God" on their lips, others with a laugh—but James Greely did not rise. He lay stunned and rolling about in the water. It was found on raising him that his right leg was broken at the thigh.

When Jim recovered consciousness he did not complain. He was a man of stern mould, and neither groaned nor spoke; but he was not the less impressed with the kindness and apparent skill with which the mission skipper treated him.

Having received a certain amount of surgical training, the skipper— although unlearned and a fisherman—knew well how to put the leg in splints and otherwise to treat the patient.

"It's pretty bad, I fear," he said soothingly, observing that Jim's lips were compressed, and that beads of perspiration were standing on his brow.

Jim did not reply, but smiled grimly and nodded, for the rolling of the ship caused him increasing agony as the injured parts began to inflame.

"I'm not very good at this sort o' work," said the mission skipper modestly, "but thank God the new hospital-ship is cruisin' wi' the Short Blue just now. I saw her only yesterday, so we'll put you aboard of her and there you'll find a reg'lar shore-goin' surgeon, up to everything, and with all the gimcracks and arrangements of a reg'lar shore-goin' hospital. They've got a new contrivance too—a sort o' patent stretcher, invented by a Mr Dark o' the head office in London—which'll take you out o' the boat into the ship without movin' a bone or muscle, so keep your mind easy, skipper, for you'll be aboard the Queen Victoria before many hours go by."