it, runs through him from top to
bottom.

All the churches in the world may talk about sin and virtue, and make
most admirable and subtle distinctions. We know very well in our hearts
that pluck and courage are the great twin virtues, and that cowardice
is the fundamental sin. The perfectly plucky and courageous man would
never sin meanly; he would have no need to do so. He, and not the beefy
brute or the intellectual paragon, would be Superman. The Christ, it
often seems to me, keeps his hold on the world, and will keep it, not
because he was God-man or man-God, not because he was born normally or
abnormally, not because he redeemed mankind or didn't, not because he
provided a refuge for souls on their beam-ends, but because, of all the
great historic and legendary figures, he is the one who convinces us
that he was never afraid. In him, as we picture him, courage and pluck
were the same thing, and perfect.

But the present point is, or points are: How many men whose pluck and
courage I have admired so much, have deceived me as I deceived Tony?
And what combination of pluck and courage is it which enables these
fishermen to follow their constantly dangerous occupation with equable
mind; which, indeed, enables so many working men to follow their
dangerous trades? For it is one thing to approach danger by way of
sport, and another to work for a livelihood _in_ danger.

One's analytics fail. It is, however, stupid merely to say, "Ah, they
are inured to it. Familiarity has bred contempt." Seafaring men realise
the dangers of the sea a good deal better than anyone else. Familiarity
with the sea does not breed contempt; the older the seaman the more
careful he is. I have met old seamen, heroes in their day, whom one
would almost call nervous on the water. And in any case, what a state
of mind it is--to be _inured_ to danger! to be on familiar terms with
the possibility of death! to be able to flout, to play with, to live
on, that which all men fear!

24

[Sidenote: _LUSCOMBE_]

I have been up the coast to have dinner and a chat with my old
coastguard friend, Ned Luscombe, the man who taught me knots and
splices during the night watches when I was a visitor here years ago.
To go to his house now is very pleasant. For a long time after their
first baby died on the day they entered a new house, before even the
beds were up, it seemed as if Mrs Luscombe, a gentle, delicate woman,
'with the deuce of a will of her own,'