TH A DEAD MAN--BREAKFAST--TO THE PUMPS--SAVED AT LAST.

A fleet of a hundred vessels or more lay together, dotting the surface
of the German Ocean, or North Sea, as it is more generally called,
upwards of 300 miles from the English shore. They were mostly luggers,
of from sixty to eighty tons; each with a crew of from seven to nine
men. These vessels formed a part of the North Sea fishing fleet,
chiefly belonging to Great Yarmouth and the adjacent ports, engaged in
trawling for turbot, soles, brill, and other flat fish, for the supply
of the London market.

They had been out there for nearly three weeks, their wants being
supplied, and the fish they had caught being taken away from them by
several large cutters, which came out from Yarmouth laden with ice, in
which the fish were packed, and thus conveyed to the Thames, or to the
nearest railway terminus--thence to be transported to London, and
dispersed by similar means all over the country. It was Sunday: some of
the vessels had their sails set and their trawls down, their crews in
their dirty week-day dresses standing ready to haul them on board.
Other vessels, which had drawn close together, had their sails furled,
their anchors down, and their trawl-nets hung up in the rigging to dry.
A flag was flying at the mainmast-head on board two of them. The device
was a figure with wings, and an open book with golden leaves in its
hand, on a blue ground, and underneath, the words "Missions to Seamen."
These two vessels were somewhat apart, and boats from the others were
pulling towards them. On board one of the other vessels--the
_Sea-gull_--the crew were collected on deck, in their clean clothing,
maybe not so neat and new as they might have worn on shore, however.
The boat was alongside; the captain came on deck.

"Well, lads, who'll go with me to worship God with our
fellow-Christians?" he asked.

"What's come over the old man, of late?" growled out one of the
roughest-looking of the crew. "We used to do very well without all this
praying and preaching; and I don't see what good it'll do us."

One or two laughed: but no one answered.

"You'll go, father," said a young lad, Robby Starling, addressing
another of the men. "You can't tell what beautiful things are said; and
then there's praying and singing; it does one's heart good to hear them
sing. Come, father; come."

"It's time to shove off, lads," said the old captain, looking round to
see who would go.