"I THE BLOOD-RED LIGHT 175 



To the south-east, over the sea, the moon was 

 rising blood-red above a bank of low-lying cloud. 

 Blood-red light from it glistened on the heaps of 

 mackerel, on the mackerel in people's hands, on 

 the mackerel that were being hauled aboard the 

 boats still afloat, on the mackerel scales that 

 spattered our faces and clothes, and on the line 

 of brit along high-water mark. The very shadows, 

 the blackening darkness itself, were tinged blood- 

 red. It was as if a miasma had arisen from the 

 thousands of dead fish; as if the blood of their 

 slaughter were settling upon our heads. 



'For God's sake,' said Richard, 'let's get in 

 out o'it!' 



Over our beer we discussed the price and 

 worth of mackerel; their value as food and their 

 value during a glut. 'They'm never wuth less'n 

 eightpence a dozen,' argued one. 



'Thee's better try an' get it t'morrow!' said 

 another. 



But in the night the wind shifted, the mackerel 

 sheered off, and next day they were clean gone. 

 Again they were worth wholesale their eightpence 

 a dozen; and it was better so. 



