ould_ be a good thing t' have it grow," the old man continued.
"'Twould be far better than--than--well, now--makin' it the way they
does. Ecod!" he concluded, letting his glance fall in bewilderment on
the ground, "I wonders how they _does_ make flour. I wonders ... wonders
... where they gets the stuff an'--an'--how they makes it!"

He went off, wondering still; and my mother and I went slowly home, and
sat in the broad window of our house, which overlooked the harbour and
fronted the flaring western sky; and then first she told me of the kind
green world beyond.

III

IN THE HAVEN of HER ARMS

There was a day not far distant--my father had told my mother with a
touch of impatience that it _must_ come for all sons--when Skipper Tommy
took me with one of the twin lads in the punt to the Hook-an'-Line
grounds to jig, for the traps were doing poorly with the fish, the
summer was wasting and there was nothing for it but to take to hook and
line: which my father's dealers heartily did, being anxious to add what
fish they could to the catch, though in this slower way. And it was my
first time beyond the Gate--and the sea seemed very vast and strange and
sullen when we put out at dawn--and when the long day was near done the
wind blew gray and angry from the north and spread a thickening mist
over the far-off Watchman--and before night closed, all that Skipper
Tommy had said of harbours and flowers came true in my heart.

"We'll be havin' t' beat up t' the Gate," said he, as he hauled in the
grapnel.

"With all the wind she can carry," added little Jacky, bending to lift
the mast into the socket.

In truth, yes--as it seemed to my unknowing mind: she had all the wind
she could carry. The wind fretted the black sea until it broke all
roundabout; and the punt heeled to the gusts and endlessly flung her
bows up to the big waves; and the spray swept over us like driving rain,
and was bitter cold; and the mist fell thick and swift upon the coast
beyond. Jacky, forward with the jib-sheet in his capable little fist and
the bail bucket handy, scowled darkly at the gale, being alert as a cat,
the while; and the skipper, his mild smile unchanged by all the tumult,
kept a hand on the mainsheet and tiller, and a keen, quiet eye on the
canvas and on the vanishing rocks whither we were bound. And forth and
back she went, back and forth, again and again, without end--beating up
to harbour.

"Dear man!" said Skipper Tommy,