V THE 'MARIE-MARTHE' 293 



///v best.' A roiirul- laced fisherman, whom we 

 afterwards came to know as J' ouch' Jean, grinned 

 all over his face, from his cropped stubbly hair 

 to his stubbly unshaven chin. The armaiciir — 

 whether owner of the Marie-Marthe or managing 

 director of a company to whom she belonged, I 

 could not rightly make out — appeared politely 

 impatient to get on with business. Jim's face was 

 scrupulously blank. A high iron cart beside us 

 finished shooting pounded ice down one of the 

 Marie-Marthe s smaller hatchways. (Ice certainly 

 did not look like one night at sea.) 'Us bain't 

 'bliged to go, be us?' said Jim. We were not, of 

 course; but a decision we had to make then and 

 there. The whole of the past two days had been 

 leading up to that. When our money ran short, so 

 that we were unable, in any case, to work along the 

 coast to Brest and cross thence for a final holiday 

 flutter in Plymouth, I had suggested instead a trip 

 in a French fishing-boat. We had argued, too, 

 over and over again, exactly how they manage to 

 haul in drift-nets with steam-winches; and only 

 seeing it done could prove one or the other of us 

 right. Then, mainly for the sake of talking, I 

 had inquired at 'Le Bon Pecheur' of the merry, 

 pleasant-eyed maid whose hands were red and 



