130 NORTH SEA FISHERS AND FIGHTERS 



the quarter, half, and three-quarter lengths of nets, and 

 we go drifting at the will of wind and tide. The sea 

 appears to be evermore the same, but, although we are 

 toiling on the deep as harvesters, we know that it is 

 Sunday. Westward, dimly seen, is the high land of the 

 Yorkshire coast, with Caedmon's old monastery crowning 

 the cliff at Whitby, and there returns to mind the picture 

 of the men who on these same waters plied the craft of 

 herringing more than a thousand years ago pretty 

 much in principle as we are doing now. 



When we are slowly drifting we assemble in the 

 gloomy cabin aft and take our tea. There is the kettle 

 on the floor, and near it some enamelled mugs ; ac- 

 companied by a great stack of bread and butter, a dishful 

 of wedges of cheese ; a dish of sliced cucumber and 

 another dish of sliced onions. The cucumber is part of 

 my addition to the menu ; also some bananas and oranges 

 and we Dutch the fare. 



George has climbed into a cupboard-like bunk, which 

 he is sharing with the whaleman, and though he feigns 

 sleep, yet, from time to time, he makes sepulchral 

 observations. He has resolved that I shall be distressed, 

 and for aught I know to the contrary, he has some fear- 

 some medicine that he wishes to inflict upon me. I am 

 as stubbornly determined to have none of it. 



The skipper strips a banana cautiously, rather dis- 

 trustingly. He does not seem fully to understand, and 

 after the first bite says that he has never before eaten 

 one, and thought it was a thing containing seeds. 

 " Fishermen don't often eat fruit," he explains. " They 

 don't seem to need it and fruit's dear. But it's good 

 like a meller apple, I reckon. Yes, sir, I'll take another. 



