nd somehow had slipped, though the wind
was light and the sea whispering. But the whispering sea ran seven
miles an hour past the Bishop.
This was Mrs. Garstin's story and it left me still wondering why she
lived on at St. Mary's. I asked after her son.
"How is Leopold? What is he--a linen-draper?" She shaded her eyes with
her hand and said:
"That's the St. Agnes' lugger from the Bishop, and if we go down to
the pier now we shall meet it."
We walked down to the pier. The first person to step on shore was
Leopold, with the Trinity House buttons on his pilot coat.
"He's the third hand on the Bishop now," said Mrs. Garstin. "You are
surprised?" She sent Leopold into Hugh Town upon an errand, and as we
walked back up the hill she said: "Did you notice a grave underneath
John's tablet?"
"No," said I.
"I told you there was a mention in the log of a ketch."
"Yes."
"The ketch went ashore on the Crebinachs at half-past four on that
Christmas Eve. One man jumped for the rocks when the ketch struck, and
was drowned. The rest were brought off by the lugger. But one man was
drowned."
"He drowned because he jumped," said I.
"He drowned because my man hadn't lit the Bishop light," said she,
brushing my sophistry aside. "So I gave my boy in his place."
And now I knew why those words--"There was a haze and it was growing
dark"--held the heart of her distress.
"And if the Bishop goes next winter," she continued, "why, it will
just be a life for a life;" and she choked down a sob as a young voice
hailed us from behind.
But the Bishop still stands in the Atlantic, and Leopold, now the
second hand, explains to the Margate trippers the wonders of the North
Foreland lights.
THE CRUISE OF THE "WILLING MIND."
The cruise happened before the steam-trawler ousted the smack from the
North Sea. A few newspapers recorded it in half-a-dozen lines of
small print which nobody read. But it became and--though nowadays the
_Willing Mind_ rots from month to month by the quay--remains staple
talk at Gorleston ale-houses on winter nights.
The crew consisted of Weeks, three fairly competent hands, and a
baker's assistant, when the _Willing Mind_ slipped out of Yarmouth.
Alexander Duncan, the photographer from Derby, joined the smack
afterwards under peculiar circumstances. Duncan was a timid person,
but aware of his timidity. He was quite clear that his paramount
business was to be a man; and he was equally clea
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