tle Harbour. This was done, and the
Double Island Light has been a veritable Godsend to me as well as to
thousands of others many times since that day.

[Illustration: FISH ON THE FLAKES]

[Illustration: DRYING THE SEINES]

One hundred miles north of Indian Tickle, a place also directly in the
run of all the fishing schooners, a light was much needed. On a
certain voyage coming South with the fleet in the fall, we had all
tried to make the harbour, but it shut down suddenly before nightfall
with a blanket of fog which you could almost cut with a knife, and
being inside many reefs, and unable to make the open, we were all
forced to anchor. Where we were exactly none of us knew, for we had
all pushed on for the harbour as much as we dared. There were eleven
riding-lights visible around us when a rift came in the fog. We hoped
against hope that we had made the harbour. A fierce northeaster
gathered strength as night fell, and a mighty sea began to heave in.
Soon we strained at our anchors in the big seas, and heavy water swept
down our decks from bow to stern. Our patients were dressed and our
boats gotten ready, though it all had only a psychological value.
Gradually we missed first one and then another of the riding-lights,
and it was not difficult to guess what had happened. When daylight
broke, only one boat was left--a large vessel called the Yosemite, and
she was drifting right down toward us. Suddenly she touched a reef,
turned on her side, and we saw the seas carry her over the breakers,
the crew hanging on to her bilge. Steaming to our anchors had saved
us. All the vessels that went ashore became matchwood. But before we
could get our anchors or slip them, our main steam pipe gave out and
we had to blow down our boilers. It was now a race between the
engineers trying to repair the damage and the shortening hours of
daylight. On the result depended quite possibly the lives of us all. I
cannot remember one sweeter sound than the raucous voice of the
engineer just in the nick of time calling out, "Right for'ard," and
then the signal of the engine-room bell in the tell-tale in our little
wheel-house. The Government has since put a fine little light in
summer on White Point, the point off which we lay.

Farther north, right by our hospital at Indian Harbour, is a narrow
tickle known as the "White Cockade." Through this most of the fleet
pass, and here also we had planned for a lighthouse. When we were
forbid