NOVEMBER IN BROADLAND. 125 



1 'Bor,' says he, l yow foller the plough, or work on the land where wet grass an' 

 rubbidge sod (soak) yer trowsers below, jest yow stoop without 'em being tied to, 

 and yow'd bust off ivery button yow'd on 'em. It gi'e yer freedom o' movement, 

 'bor, and law ! we doan't fale dressed without 'em.' 



The fisher-broad man takes shorter strides, rolls in his walk, turns out his 

 elbows, and somewhat reverses his hands. His well-filled guernsey, and heavy, 

 but less ungainly boots, with the usual billycock, completes his undress uniform. 

 The barber and he are on friendly terms, for a moustache he resolutely refuses to 

 wear. He becomes altogether smarter in appearance, manners, and lingo, than 

 droning, vegetating Hodge. But those brawny, rotund shoulders and that portly 

 figure mark the fisherman indelibly not that all grow fat. 



Having accepted an invitation to * Hev a cup o' tea ' in our fisher friend's 

 house, we drop in on our homeward way to the village station betimes, finding the 

 good man playing all sorts of capers with the youngsters, who at times threaten 

 to ' swamp ' him, as he puts it. The appearance of strangers curbs their rough 

 play somewhat, and without being rude exactly, and a long way from being impu- 

 dent, they stare at us as we enter. And they do stare, to be sure, these Broadland 

 children, although the novelty of l yachtin' and other folk a gadwaddickin' (trip- 

 ping) on the Broads is wearing off. 



There is a savoury smell of bloaters not those oak-billet smoked delicacies 

 from the fish-house, but fresh herrings or rather the least bit salted, that have 

 hung a day or so in the air to dry and season. Grilled over a clear wood fire, they 

 are exceedingly appetising: and we are not long in ' falling to.' 



The home-made bread is in keeping with the herrings, which we disintegrate 

 with our fingers ; the fastidious spoil the flavour by using knife and fork. l Hunches ' 

 of bread disappear as if by magic all round the youngsters as well as we have 

 prodigious appetites. Seven herrings disappear from between Billy Tungate, our 

 host's big brown fingers ; he, too, has an appetite. The tea is black by name and 

 appearance; Tungate's < Missus' has been broken into ' bilin' it in the old kettle, 

 and emptyin' the leaves only when theer's no rume to put more in.' Then when 

 full, as the fisher-folk do at sea, she empties it, so he tells us, and makes a fresh 

 start from the kettle bottom. 



One Broadland cottage is much like another both inside and out. There is 



