r went the skipper into the arms of Luke, who lost his balance, and
both rolled into the bottom of the boat as it sank into the succeeding
hollow.

The danger being past, poor Billy signalised the event, and at the same
time relieved his feelings, with a lusty cheer.

In a very short time Joe Davidson steered the _Evening Star_ close to
their tossing boat. Billy stood ready with the painter, and the instant
the sides touched, he was over the rail like a monkey and made fast.

The taking of the drunk man out of the boat was by no means so difficult
as getting him into it had been. Joe, Luke, Spivin, and Zulu, as well
as Billy, leaned over the side of the smack, with their ten arms
extended and their fifty fingers curled like crabs' claws or
grappling-irons, ready to hook on and hold on. David Bright's extended
and helpless form was held in position by Gunter. When it came within
reach the fifty fingers closed; the boat surged away, and David was
safe, though still held in suspense over the deep.

But that was only for a moment. A good heave placed him on the vessel's
rail, and another laid him on the deck.

"Brought on board his own smack like a dead pig!" muttered Gunter, whose
anger at the skipper rekindled when he saw him once more in safety.

"He's fifty times better than you, even as he lies, you surly old
grampus," cried Billy, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.

"Come, Billy," said Joe Davidson, kindly, "lend a hand, boy, to carry
him below. It's a sad break-down, but remember--he's not past
redemption. Come."

Four of the fishermen raised the skipper in their strong arms, and
conveyed him to his own bunk, where they left him to sleep off the
effects of his debauch.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

CONVERSE IN THE CABIN--THE TEMPTER AGAIN--AN ACCIDENT.

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

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

Th