run down in a fog—captain bream acts surprisingly.

one day a fishing-smack was on the eve of quitting the short blue fleet for its little holiday of a week in port. it was the sparrow, of which jim frost was master. a flag was flying to indicate its intention, and invite letters, etcetera, for home, if any of the crews should feel disposed to send them.

several boats put off from their respective smacks in reply to the signal. one of these belonged to singing peter.

“glad to see you, peter,” said jim frost as the former leaped on the sparrow’s deck.

“same to you, lad. i wish you a pleasant spell ashore, and may the master be with you,” returned peter.

“the master is sure to be with me,” replied frost, “for has he not said, ‘i will never leave thee?’ isn’t it a fine thing, peter, to think that, whatever happens, the lord is here to guard us from evil?”

“ay, jim, an’ to take us home when the time comes.”

“‘which is far better,’” responded jim.

“you’ll not get away to-night,” remarked peter as he gazed out upon the sea. “it’s goin’ to fall calm.”

“no matter. i can wait.”

“what say ye, lad, to a hymn?” said peter.

“i’m your man,” replied jim, with a laugh, “i thought it wouldn’t be long before singin’ peter would want to raise his pipe.”

“he can’t help it, d’ee see,” returned peter, answering the laugh with a smile; “if i didn’t sing i’d blow up. it’s my safety-valve, jim, an’ i like to blow off steam when i gets alongside o’ like-minded men.”

“we’re all like-minded here. fetch my accordion,” said jim, turning to one of his men.

in a few minutes a lively hymn was raised in lusty tones which rolled far and wide over the slumbering sea. then these like-minded men offered up several prayers, and it was observed that jim frost was peculiarly earnest that night. of course they had some more hymns, for as the calm was by that time complete, and it was not possible for any sailing vessel to quit the fleet, there was no occasion to hurry. indeed there is no saying how long these iron-framed fishermen would have kept it up, if it had not been for a slight fog which warned the visitors to depart.

as the night advanced the fog thickened, so that it was not possible to see more than fifty yards around any of the fishing-smacks.

now it is probably known to most people that the greatest danger to which those who do business on the sea are exposed is during fog.

when all around is calm and peaceful; when the sound of voices comes with muffled sound over the smooth water; when the eye sees nothing save a ghostly white horizon all round close at hand; when almost the only sound that breaks on the ear is the gentle lapping of the sea, or the quiet creak of plank and spar, as the vessel slowly lifts and falls on the gentle swell, and when landsmen perchance feel most secure—then it is that the dark cloud of danger lowers most heavily, though perhaps unrecognised, over the mariner, and stirs him to anxious watchfulness, when apparently in profoundest repose.

jim frost knew well the dangers of the situation, but he had been long accustomed to face all the dangers peculiar to his calling on the deep without flinching—strong in the confidence of his well-tried courage and seamanship, and stronger still in his trust in him who holds the water in the hollow of his hand. many a time had he been becalmed in fog on the north sea. he knew what to do, kept the fog-horn blowing, and took all the steps for safety that were possible in the circumstances.

but, somehow, the young fisherman did not feel his usual easy-going indifference on that particular night, though his trust in god was not less strong. he felt no fear, indeed, but a solemn sobriety of spirit had taken the place of his wonted cheery temperament, and, instead of singing in lively tones as he paced the deck, he hummed airs of a slow pathetic kind in a soft undertone.

it is often said that men receive mysterious intimations, sometimes, of impending disaster. it may be so. we cannot tell. certainly it seemed as if jim frost had received some such intimation that night.

“i can’t understand it, evan,” he said to his mate when the latter came on deck a little after midnight to relieve him. “a feeling as if something was going to happen has taken possession of me, and i can’t shake it off. you know i’m not the man to fancy danger when there’s none.”

evan—a youth whom he had been the means of rescuing when about to fall, under great temptation—replied that perhaps want of sleep was the cause.

“you know,” he said, “men become little better than babbies when they goes long without sleep, an’ you’ve not had much of late. what with that tearin’ o’ the net an’ the gale that’s just gone, an’ that book, you know—”

“ah!” interrupted jim, “you mustn’t lay the blame on the book, evan. i haven’t bin sittin’ up very late at it; though i confess i’m uncommon fond o’ readin’. besides, it’s a good book, more likely to quiet a man’s mind than to rouse it. how we ever got on without readin’ before that mission-ship came to us, is more than i can understand! why, it seems to have lifted me into a new world.”

“that’s so. i’m fond o’ readin’ myself,” said evan, who, although not quite so enthusiastic or intellectual as his friend, appreciated very highly the library-bags which had been recently sent to the fleet.

“but the strange thing is,” said jim, returning to the subject of his impressions—“the strange thing is, that my mind is not runnin’ on danger or damaged gear, or books, or gales, but on my dear wife at home. i’ve bin thinkin’ of nancy in a way that i don’t remember to have done before, an’ the face of my darlin’ lucy, wi’ her black eyes an’ rosy cheeks so like her mother, is never absent from my eyes for a moment.”

“want o’ sleep,” said the practical evan. “you’d better turn in an’ have a good spell as long as the calm lasts.”

“you remember the patch o’ green in front o’ my cottage in gorleston?” asked jim, paying no attention to his mate’s advice.

“yes,” answered evan.

“well, when i was sittin’ for’ard there, not half-an-hour since, i seed my nancy a-sittin’ on that green as plain as i see you, sewin’ away at somethin’, an’ lucy playin’ at her knee. they was so real-like that i couldn’t help sayin’ ‘nancy!’ an’ i do assure you that she stopped sewin’ an’ turned her head a-one side for a moment as if she was listenin’. an’ it was all so real-like too.”

“you was dreamin’; that was all,” said the unromantic evan.

“no, mate. i wasn’t dreamin’,” returned jim. “i was as wide awake as i am at this moment for i was lookin’ out all round just as keen as if i had not bin thinkin’ about home at all.”

“well, you’d as well go below an’ dream about ’em now if you can,” suggested evan, “an’ i’ll keep a sharp look-out.”

“no, lad, i can’t. i’m not a bit sleepy.”

as jim said this he turned and went to the bow of the smack.

at that moment the muffled sound of a steamer’s paddles was heard. probably the fog had something to do with the peculiarity of the sound, for next moment a fog-whistle sounded its harsh tone close at hand, and a dark towering shadow seemed to rush down upon the sparrow.

even if there had been a breeze there would have been no time to steer clear of the danger. as it was, the little vessel lay quite helpless on the sea, evan shouted down the companion for the men to turn out for their lives. the man at the bow sounded the fog-horn loud and long. at the same instant jim frost’s voice rang out strong and clear a warning cry. it was answered from above. there were sudden screams and cries. the fog-whistle shrieked. engines were reversed. “hard a-port!” was shouted. steam was blown off, and, amid confusion and turmoil indescribable, an ocean steamer struck the little sparrow amidships, and fairly rammed her into the sea.

it could scarcely be said that there was a crash. the one was too heavy and the other too light for that. the smack lay over almost gracefully, as if submitting humbly to her inevitable doom. there was one great cry, and next moment she was rolling beneath the keel of the monster that had so ruthlessly run her down.

not far off—so near indeed that those on board almost saw the catastrophe—lay the evening star. they of course heard the cries and the confusion, and knew only too well what had occurred.

to order out the boat was the work of an instant. with powerful strokes joe, spivin, trevor, and gunter, caused it to leap to the rescue. on reaching the spot they discovered and saved the mate. he was found clinging to an oar, but all the others had disappeared. the steamer which had done the deed had lowered a boat, and diligent search was made in all directions round the spot where the fatal collision had occurred. no other living soul, however, was found. only a few broken spars and the upturned boat of the smack remained to tell where jim frost, and the rest of his like-minded men, had exchanged the garb of toil for the garments of glory!

as a matter of course this event made a profound impression for a time on board of the evening star and of such vessels as were near enough next morning to be informed of the sad news. a large portion of the fleet, however, was for some time unaware of what had taken place, and some of the masters and crews who were averse to what they styled “psalm-singin’ and prayin’,” did not seem to be much affected by the loss.

whether grieved or indifferent however, the work of the fleet had to be done. whether fishermen live or die, sink or swim, the inexorable demand of billingsgate for fish must be met! accordingly, next day about noon, a fresh breeze having sprung up, and a carrier-steamer being there ready for her load, the same lively scene which we have described in a previous chapter was re-enacted, and after the smacks were discharged they all went off as formerly in the same direction, like a shoal of herrings, to new fishing-grounds.

when they had got well away to the eastward and were beating up against a stiff northerly breeze, david bright who stood near the helm of the evening star, said to his son in a peculiarly low voice—

“now, billy, you go below an’ fetch me a glass of grog.”

billy went below as desired, but very unwillingly, for he well knew his father’s varying moods, and recognised in the peculiar tone in which the order was given, a species of despondency—almost amounting to despair—which not unfrequently ushered in some of his worst fits of intemperance.

“your fadder’s in de blues to-day,” said zulu, as he toiled over his cooking apparatus in the little cabin; “when he spok like dat, he goes in for heavy drink.”

“i know that well enough,” returned billy, almost angrily.

“why you no try him wid a ’speriment?” asked the cook, wrinkling up his nose and displaying his tremendous gums.

“for any sake don’t open your mouth like that, zulu, but tell me what you mean by a ’speriment,” said the boy.

“how kin i tell what’s a ’speriment if i’m not to open my mout’?”

“shut up, you nigger! an’ talk sense.”

“der you go agin, billy. how kin i talk sense if i’m to shut up? don’t you know what a ’speriment is? why it’s—it’s—just a ’speriment you know—a dodge.”

“if you mean a dodge, why don’t you say a dodge?” retorted billy; “well, what is your dodge? look alive, for daddy’ll be shoutin’ for his grog in a minute.”

“you jus’ listen,” said the cook, in a hoarse whisper, as he opened his enormous eyes to their widest, “you jus’ take a wine-glass—de big ’un as your fadder be fond of—an’ put in ’im two teaspoonfuls o’ vinegar, one tablespoonful o’ parafine hoil, one leetle pinch o’ pepper, an’ one big pinch ob salt with a leetle mustard, an’ give ’im dat. your fadder never take time to smell him’s grog—always toss ’im off quick.”

“yes, an’ then he’d toss the wine-glass into my face an’ kick me round the deck afterwards, if not overboard,” said billy, with a look of contempt. “no, zulu, i don’t like your ’speriment, but you’ve put a notion into my head, for even when a fool speaks a wise man may learn—”

“yes, i often tink dat,” said the cook, interrupting, with a look of innocence. “you quite right, so speak away, billy, an’ i’ll learn.”

“you fetch me the wine-glass,” said the boy, sharply.

zulu obeyed.

“now, fill it up with water—so, an’ put in a little brown sugar to give it colour. that’s enough, stir him up. not bad rum—to look at. i’ll try father wi’ that.”

accordingly, our little hero went on deck and handed the glass to his father—retreating a step or two, promptly yet quietly, after doing so.

as zulu had said, david bright did not waste time in smelling his liquor. he emptied the glass at one gulp, and then gazed at his son with closed lips and gradually widening eyes.

“it’s only sugar and water, daddy,” said billy, uncertain whether to laugh or look grave.

for a few moments the skipper was speechless. then his face flushed, and he said in a voice of thunder, “go below an’ fetch up the keg.”

there was no disobeying that order! the poor boy leaped down the ladder and seized the rum-keg.

“your ’speriment might have been better after all, zulu,” he whispered as he passed up again, and stood before his father.

what may have passed in the mind of that father during the brief interval we cannot tell, but he still stood with the empty wine-glass in his hand and a fierce expression on his face.

to billy’s surprise, however, instead of seizing the keg and filling out a bumper, he said sternly—“see here,” and tossed the wine-glass into the sea. “now lad,” he added, in a quiet voice, “throw that keg after it.”

the poor boy looked at his sire with wondering eyes, and hesitated.

“overboard with it!” said david bright in a voice of decision.

with a mingling of wild amazement, glee, and good-will, billy, exerting all his strength, hurled the rum-keg into the air, and it fell with a heavy splash upon the sea.

“there, billy,” said david, placing his hand gently on the boy’s head, “you go below and say your prayers, an’ if ye don’t know how to pray, get luke trevor to teach you, an’ don’t forget to thank god that your old father’s bin an’ done it at last.”

we are not informed how far billy complied with these remarkable orders, but certain we are that david bright did not taste a drop of strong drink during the remainder of that voyage. whether he tasted it afterwards at all must be left for this chronicle to tell at the proper time and place.

at present it is necessary that we should return to yarmouth, where captain bream, in pursuance of his deep-laid schemes, entered a bookseller’s shop and made a sweeping demand for theological literature.

“what particular work do you require, sir?” asked the surprised and somewhat amused bookseller.

“i don’t know that i want any one in particular,” said the captain, “i want pretty well all that have bin published up to this date. you know the names of ’em all, i suppose?”

“indeed no, sir,” answered the man with a look of uncertainty. “theological works are very numerous, and some of them very expensive. perhaps if—”

“now, look here. i’ve got neither time nor inclination to get upon the subject just now,” said the captain. “you just set your clerk to work to make out a list o’ the principal works o’ the kind you’ve got on hand, an’ i’ll come back in the evenin’ to see about it. never mind the price. i won’t stick at that—nor yet the quality. anything that throws light on religion will do.”

“but, sir,” said the shopman, “some of the theological works of the present day are supposed—at least by the orthodox—to throw darkness instead of light on religion.”

“all right,” returned the captain, “throw ’em all in. i don’t expect divines to agree any more than doctors. besides, i’ve got a chart to steer by, called the bible, that’ll keep me clear o’ rocks an’ shoals. you make your mind easy, an’ do as i bid you. get the books together by six o’clock this evening, an’ the account made out, for i always pay cash down. good-day.”

leaving the bookseller to employ himself with this astounding “order,” captain bream next went to that part of the town which faces the sea-beach, and knocked at the door of a house in the window of which was a ticket with “lodgings” inscribed on it.

“let me see your rooms, my good girl,” said the captain to the little maid who opened the door.

the little maid looked up at the captain with some surprise and no little hesitancy. she evidently feared either that the rooms would not be suitable for the applicant or that the applicant would not be suitable for the rooms. she admitted him, however, and, leading him up-stairs, ushered him into the parlour of the establishment.

“splendid!” exclaimed the captain on beholding the large window, from which there was seen a glorious view of the sea, so near that the ships passing through the deep water close to the beach seemed as if they were trying which of them could sail nearest to land without grounding.

“splendid!” he repeated with immense satisfaction as he turned from the view to the room itself; “now this is what i call fortunate. the very thing—sofa for miss jessie—easy-chair for miss kate—rocking chair for both of ’em. nothin’ quite suitable for me, (looking round), but that’s not difficult to remedy. glass over the chimney to see their pretty faces in, and what have we here—a press?”

“no, sir,” said the little maid, pushing open the door, “a small room off this one, sir.”

“glorious!” shouted the captain, entering and striking the top of the door-way with his head in doing so. “nothing could be better. this is the theological library! just the thing—good-sized window, same view, small table, and—well, i declare! if there ain’t empty bookshelves!”

“very sorry, sir,” said the little maid, hastening to apologise; “we have no books, but they’ll be handy for any books you may bring to the sea-side with you, sir, or for any little knick-knacks and odds and ends.”

“yes, yes, my good girl. i’ll fetch a few theological odds and ends to-night that’ll p’r’aps fill ’em up. by the way, you’ve a bedroom, i hope?”

he looked anxious, and the maid, who seemed inclined to laugh, said that of course they had, a nice airy bedroom on the same floor on the other side of the passage—also commanding the sea.

the captain’s face beamed again.

“and now, my girl—but, by the way, i shall want another bedroom. have you—”

“i’m sorry to say that we have not. the rest of the house is quite full.”

captain bream’s face again became anxious. “that’s bad,” he said; “of course i can get one out o’ the house, but it would be inconvenient.”

“there is a hattic, sir,” said the maid, “but it is ’igh up, and so very small, that i fear—”

“let me see the attic,” said the captain, promptly.

the maid conducted him up another flight of steps to a room, or rather closet, which did not appear to be more than five feet broad and barely six feet long; including the storm-window, it might have been perhaps seven feet long. it was situated in a sort of angle, so that from the window you could have a view of a piece of slate roof, and two crooked chimney pots with a slice of the sea between them. as there was much traffic on the sea off that coast, the slice referred to frequently exhibited a ship or a boat for a few seconds.

“my study!” murmured the captain, looking round on the bare walls, and the wooden chair, and a low bedstead which constituted the furniture. “not much room for the intellect to expand here. however, i’ve seen worse.”

“we consider it a very good hattic, sir,” said the little maid, somewhat hurt by the last remark.

“i meant no offence, my dear,” said the captain, with one of his blandest smiles, “only the berth is rather small, d’ee see, for a man of my size. it is first-rate as far as it goes, but if it went a little further—in the direction of the sea, you know—it might give me a little more room to kick about my legs. but it’ll do. it’ll do. i’ll take all the rooms, so you’ll consider them engaged.”

“but you haven’t asked the price of ’em yet sir,” said the little maid.

“i don’t care tuppence about the price, my dear. are you the landlady?”

“la! no, sir,” replied the girl, laughing outright as they returned to the parlour.

“well then, you send the landlady to me, and i’ll soon settle matters.”

when the landlady appeared, the captain was as good as his word. he at once agreed to her terms, as well as her stipulations, and paid the first week’s rent in advance on the spot.

“now,” said he, on leaving, “i’ll come back this evening with a lot of books. to-morrow forenoon, the ladies for whom the rooms are taken will arrive, please god, and you will have everything ready and in apple-pie order for ’em. i’ll see about grub afterwards, but in the meantime you may give orders to have sent in to-morrow a lot o’ fresh eggs and milk and cream—lots of cream—and fresh butter and tea and coffee an’ suchlike. but i needn’t do more than give a wink to a lady of your experience.”

with this last gallant remark captain bream left the lodging and strolled down to the sea-beach.