n 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. Ther