Ill SAILING ASHORE 145 



when the wind, increasing faster than the lop, 

 drives scudding wavelets over the surface of 

 the swell. During the hushes that preceded the 

 mutterings of the thunder it was easy to fancy- 

 that one saw the drifter out there — a little boat 

 glimmering in a waste of heaving foam, tossed 

 high, plunging low — two men hauling and strain- 

 ing to get the nets inboard. Perhaps they were 

 already running home under reefed foresail. 



We waited on. The lamps along the Front 

 were turned down. A few people who come out 

 on rough nights to see the boats run in and lend a 

 hand, gathered round in wet mackintoshes. 'I 

 sees a light!' cried Benjie, peering into the thick- 

 ness over the sea. "Tis her! Come on!' 



Almost before we could run to the foot of the 

 beach, the drifter, under full-bellied sail, swooped 

 across the breakers and grounded, like a bird shot 

 down in a high wind. Benjie ran into the water 

 for the cut-rope. I hooked it on to the capstan 

 wire. That done, she was ashore. 'Heave away !' 

 we shouted. With six or eight at the capstan bars 

 she crunched ponderously up the beach. 



'How many have 'ee catched?' we asked 

 when she was trigged and made fast. 



'Five or six dozen,' Richard replied. 



L 



