oard soon."

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

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

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

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

"Let him have it," said Herring at last. "He can't do much damage."

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

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

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

RUTH AND CAPTAIN