e 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 s