Voices of the Night 



or " blowing" round him, whilst he rolls gently, with- 

 out influence of either steam or wind, on the bosom 

 of a peaceful sea. Some years ago I was misguided 

 enough to spend a holiday aboard a very ancient 

 trawler on the Dogger Bank in search of mackerel, but 

 found it the world's headquarters for discomfort rather 

 than that of toothsome fish. 



As fresh air was so monotonously plentiful all round 

 it was rigidly excluded from below decks for the sake of 

 change. Unfortunately my constitution would not 

 stand the atmosphere of a Dutch oven and rabbit-hutch 

 combined, and I was compelled to sleep in the ship's 

 boat with an old sail over me. I greatly regret to 

 record this shameful weakness, because it demonstrates 

 so vividly the depths of man's degeneration since the 

 noble days when he slept soundly in a damp cave on 

 odoriferous home-cured skins ! 



Lying awake wondering how long it would take my 

 ribs and the iron-hard timbers of the boat under me to 

 strike up a more friendly acquaintance, I suddenly 

 became aware of some strangely intermittent sounds in 

 the offing. They appeared to be a melancholy admix- 

 ture of blowing and sighing with just the suggestion of 

 a groan thrown in. 



The ship's ancient watchman had stuck the blade of 

 his baccy-stained pocket knife into the mast as a peace 

 offering to the god of breezes (whoever that deity may 

 be), and was dividing his time and energy with meticu- 

 lous care between whistling for a wind and inviting the 

 " little mackerel to swim up," as he paced the starlit 



9 



