90 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



and the father of the family would vote the place 

 too far away from his business. On the other 

 hand, failing in its appeal to a new set of customers, 

 it would simultaneously lose the old, since, with 

 the advent of the railway, its great charm of aloof- 

 ness would be gone. 



If on that occasion I was charmed with the place, 

 I could hardly, being predisposed in favour of all 

 honest fishermen, fail to be satisfactorily impressed 

 by such types as our host, John Blight, or our attend- 

 ant henchman, George Marshall. John is a flaxen- 

 haired giant, standing over six feet in his socks, 

 and of a goodly breadth to match. For years 

 he has gone forth night after night aboard the 

 Foam (62 FY.), fair weather or foul, after mackerel, 

 pilchards, or herrings, according to season. Jona- 

 than Barron, another friend of mine, is owner 

 of the Foam and another boat, but they all 

 work together on a system of profit-sharing, 

 which, if it falls hard on lean times keeps one's 

 independence sweet year in year out. George 

 is a man of very different type, more stocky 

 and darker of complexion. His fishing is all 

 single-handed hooking. Soon, no doubt, his son, 

 one of a large covey, will lend a hand, but hitherto 

 the father has worked his lugger alone, sailing 

 away to the whiting ground before daybreak 

 and returning with a varying harvest in time for 

 the afternoon market. 



