rning an amused look on
Billy; "Singin' Peter won't knock off till he's under the sod or under
the sea."

"Then he'll never knock off at all," returned Billy, "for Luke there has
bin tellin' me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that
will never end when we git into the next world."

"That depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down."

"Well, I s'pose it does. But tell me, daddy, ain't the hand very bad?
I'm so awful sorry, you know."

"It might ha' bin worse, Billy, but don't you take on so, my boy. We'll
be all right an' ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow,
on board the mission-ship."

The hand was not however, so easily fixed up as David Bright seemed to
expect.

"Come down an' let's have a look at it, David," said the skipper, when
the vessel's deck was gained.

By that time Singing Peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had
changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very
tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of
the _Evening Star_.

"It's a bad cut," said Peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man's
palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. "We'll have to
try a little o' the surgeon's business here. You can take a stitch in
human flesh I daresay, skipper? If you can't, I'll try."

The mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. He sponged the
wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness--
whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell--drew the edges of
the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking
plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper's
fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around
him.

"A regular boxin'-glove," exclaimed David, hitting the operator a gentle
tap on the nose with it.

"Thank 'ee, friend," said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to
re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; "you know that the
Fishermen's Mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does
it expect to receive a rap without asking. Come, David, you mustn't
flourish it about like that. We all know you're a plucky fellow, but
it'll never splice properly if you go on so."

"Hold on, Mr Missionary!" cried Gunter, as the lid of the chest was
being closed, "don't shut up yet. I wants some o' your doctor's stuff."

"All right my hearty! What do _you_ want?"

"He wants a pair o' eye-glasse