FRESH AND SALT. 191 



within gunshot of Gorleston Pier ; to-morrow she will again 

 spread her wings of dusky canvas and make sail for the fish- 

 ing-ground in yonder offing. Her little flag — a white square 

 on a ground of scariest — flutters jauntily on the mizen-truck. 

 The aft companionway, the hold, and the forecastle, are 

 fastened down with padlock, and no careful watch patrols 

 the black, solidly-patched, service-worn deck. Truly the 

 skipper indulges in no mere affectation when he suggests- 

 that the Seabird is not exactly a floating palace. 



To-morrow comes with the brightest of sunshine and the 

 most musical of Sabbath bells. The crew arrive in twos and 

 threes, swinging themselves down upon the damp decks,, 

 and if one or two lads seem to be suffering from that common- 

 malady in these parts — a Saturday night on shore — there is, 

 let it be charitably said, little wonder. For three weeks un- 

 til yesterday the Seabird was hard at work outside of the 

 harbour, and it would be expecting too much from human, 

 nature, especially human nature in a sailor's guernsey, to 

 demand that the strapping young able-bodied fellows, wh» 

 are as yet not half awake, should not make the most of their 

 very brief holiday after the manner of their kind. 



At length here we are onboard — skipper, mate, cook, crew, 

 and cabin-boy, eleven souls, with a stranger on what we may 

 term the quarterdeck to make the complement a dozen, all 

 told. The Hams and Peggottys of the village lounging on 

 the quay above our heads make facetious remarks to the 

 Seabird' s crew touching their " first-class passenger,'' who- 

 somehow manages to survive these trials, and keeps close 

 to the skipper at the helm, while the crew, wiXh a lusty 

 " Heave-ho ! " chorus, warp the Seabird out, and run up the 

 big mainsail and jib. 



