ni THE OLD ' HEN ' HOME 149 



hours' work nearly everything was out of her. 

 Creeping round with the capstan bars so that no 

 sudden jerk should part the rusty wire, we hauled 

 the Henrietta up the beach, and then, leaning 

 against her gunwale — which gave to the weight of 

 one's shoulders — we stood around her. We looked 

 inside. Even in the dim shifty light we saw that 

 the poor old Hen was all to bits. 



'This here's my last mackerel drifting this sea- 

 son,' said one of the Waremen. 'I've had enough 

 o'it. I only came for a stopgap. Crabbing's my 

 job.' 



'An' / wouldn't ha' put to sea in her,' said his 

 brother, 'if 't hadn't been for obliging my mate 

 that I goes trawling with — him that owns her an' 

 has let her get like this. Rotten nets, rotten 

 ropes, rotten gear, rotten everything ! Us 'ould 

 ha' managed to beat home all right if the sail 

 hadn't blow'd away. When us ran ashore two or 

 three big seas knocked us up high and dry, an' 

 there we was. God's sakes, what a night!' 



Jim was patting and smoothing the Henrietta. 

 Waremen have a reputation for going cheerily to 

 sea with gear that's long past it; but Jim had 

 carried with him for many years a memory of the 

 old boat in her prime; and now he could not deny 



