WITH A LOWESTOFT DRIFTER 135 



with the raw wind striking across my face and the 

 roughening water from the sullen Dogger lapping 

 against the drifter's hull, telling its tales of hardship and 

 suffering ; bringing back oppressive memories, and 

 resurrecting that nameless fear which comes to all who 

 understand the North Sea and the smashing fury of 

 its waves, when gales sweep landward from the east or 

 north. I cannot rest, and rise and join the lonely 

 watchman, and, smoking, we converse in low tones, 

 pausing at times to listen to the spouting of a blow-fish 

 which is swimming around the drifter, and whose 

 presence is interpreted by the watchman to be a sign 

 of herrings. Always our talk is of the sea and drifters 

 and herrings. Insiduously there comes up from time 

 to time some tale of loss and sorrow, and I call to mind 

 the wrecks that I have seen. You cannot get away 

 from the gloom and pity of it. The North Sea has 

 you in its grip and the grip is merciless. 



"It's one o'clock," I tell the watchman in answer 

 to his question. We rouse the crew, and in the 

 darkness, sleepy, silent, heavy, oil-frocked, and sea- 

 booted, and in most cases wearing woollen mittens, 

 they come on deck to start the long, laborious work 

 of hauling the nets, which may last four or fourteen 

 hours. 



George reels against me, owlish, but incorrigibly 

 hopeful. " Still tawpside-up, sir ? That's good. Like 

 these old drifters they're all right so long as they keep 

 afloat, aren't they ? There's tea in the galley, and 

 there'll be breakfast by and by." With that he tumbles 

 down a little square hole forward, to stow the warp as 

 the nets are hauled in, and I see him no more until 



