missed the night out there for any consideration. The
grey, slightly sheeny boil of the sea around us; the sweeping savagery
of the sky; the intimacy of the waters....

But we were all relieved when eleven o'clock came. The watchfulness was
a strain.

When one is steering instead of hauling, the getting-in of nine
forty-fathom nets seems interminable. One net, two nets, three nets--a
third of nine,--four, five--more than half the fleet,--six--two-thirds
of nine,--seven, eight--nine all but one;--and so on, with an
occasional wave coming inboard, until the very last square buoy comes
bobbing towards the boat; hand over hand, buoy by buoy, net by net,
holding fast when the pull of the tide is too strong, and pausing
irritably to pick out the fish. We stepped the great mast, shifted all
the ballast to wind'ard. John came aft to steer, and seated himself on
the counter, a strangely powerful, statuesque figure in his wet
oilskins. "Have 'ee got the sheet in yer hand?" Tony called out from
the bows.

John did not trouble to reply.

"Have 'ee got the sheet in yer hand, John?"

"No, I an't! What the hell do 'ee want the sheet for? Wind's abeam."

"Might want it bad," said Tony.

[Sidenote: _A REMBRANDTESQUE PICTURE_]

We left it fast however; and with the same, an elemental passion took
possession of my mind; ousted all else. I had been anxious about the
sheet, had thought John foolhardy. Now I didn't care. I could have
cried out aloud for joy as the brave old craft rose to the seas with a
marvellous easy motion and the waves came skatting in over the bows.
Before long, I was on my knees with the baler; John was getting every
inch out of the wind, and Tony was standing abaft the nets with the
sheet dangling through his hand. By the light of the riding-lamp on the
mizzen mast (its glass patched with an old jam cover), they in their
angular wet oil-skins--the rain was pelting--and the rich wet brown of
the boat's varnish, made a wonderful Rembrandtesque picture. I hardly
know how long we were sailing home; it slipped my mind to take the
time. About two o'clock I was halfway down the beach with Tony cursing
above me and John doing the same below. Someone had 'messed up' our
capstan wire. While Tony was putting that right in the dark--and
pinching his fingers severely--the boat washed broadside on and began
to fill. We had only five dozen fish. They sold badly.

In time, and with practice, I could, I believe, do most tha