that night a wonderful amount of vigorous action, good and
bad--largely, if not chiefly bad--under very peculiar circumstances, and
that there was room for improvement everywhere.

Strong and bulky and wiry men were gambling and drinking, and singing
and swearing; story-telling and fighting, and skylarking and sleeping.
The last may be classed appropriately under the head of action, if we
take into account the sonorous doings of throats and noses. As if to
render the round of human procedure complete, there was at least one
man--perhaps more--praying.

Yes, Manx Bradley, the admiral, was praying. And his prayer was
remarkably brief, as well as earnest. Its request was that God would
send help to the souls of the men whose home was the North Sea. For
upwards of thirty years Manx and a few like-minded men had persistently
put up that petition. During the last few years of that time they had
mingled thanksgiving with the prayer, for a gracious answer was being
given. God had put it into the heart of the present Director of the
Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen to inaugurate a system of evangelisation
among the heretofore neglected thousands of men and boys who toil upon
the North Sea from January to December. Mission or Gospel smacks were
purchased, manned by Christian skippers and crews, and sent out to the
various fleets, to fish with them during the week, and supply them with
medicine for body and soul, with lending libraries of wholesome
Christian literature, and with other elevating influences, not least
among which was a floating church or meeting-house on Sundays.

But up to the time we write of, Manx Bradley had only been able to
rejoice in the blessing as sent to others. It had not yet reached his
own fleet, the twelve or thirteen hundred men and boys of which were
still left in their original condition of semi-savagery, and exposure to
the baleful influences of that pest of the North Sea--the _coper_.

"You see, Jacob Jones," said the admiral to the only one of his "hands"
who sympathised with him in regard to religion, "if it warn't for the
baccy, them accursed _copers_ wouldn't be able to keep sich a hold of
us. Why, bless you, there's many a young feller in this fleet as don't
want no grog--especially the vile, fiery stuff the _copers_ sell 'em;
but when the Dutchmen offers the baccy so cheap as 1 shilling 6 pence a
pound, the boys are only too glad to go aboard and git it. Then the
Dutchmen, being un