THE PINTAIL DUCK AND THE SHOVELLER 231 



the small harbour, anchored under bare poles. The 

 place looks like a fir plantation with all the boughs 

 lopped off. 



If you will only go as far as the end of the quay 

 from which the sea-wall starts, you may see the waters 

 leaping and rushing in huge sheets of blinding spray 

 over the sand-bar ; and you will hear the roar which 

 is none the less terrible in its sound because distance 

 softens it. No craft belonging to the place are out 

 to-day, and in that fact lies a consolation of which 

 inland dwellers can form no conception. Women, 

 married and single, are on the quay talking to one 

 another ; they can hear the hiss and roar of the bar, 

 and with glistening eyes and lowered voices they 

 thank God that this time their men are at home, or 

 at least in harbour, which means much the same 

 thing, considering that none but a native of the place 

 could reach that haven of rest from the open sea, 

 such a network of channels intervenes. So close is 

 the steering that, when the tide has gone down, the 

 cuts of the keel in the ooze may be seen. 



Hundreds of times have I watched them come in 

 from open water, each skipper and his small crew so 

 well known to me, and loudly were they hailed as 

 they swept up the winding channel, darting now 

 here, now there, for sailing water. To all appear- 

 ance the skippers of those crafts which followed in 

 each other's wake were taking matters very uncon- 

 cernedly, but this was not really the case. Their 

 keen eyes were taking everything in, and their 

 strong grasp on the tiller was that of long practice. 



