lded a little, even while the line was played.

'I told you so,' quoth Mr Inspector, pulling off his outer coat, and
leaning well over the stern with a will. 'Come!'

It was an awful sort of fishing, but it no more disconcerted Mr
Inspector than if he had been fishing in a punt on a summer evening by
some soothing weir high up the peaceful river. After certain minutes,
and a few directions to the rest to 'ease her a little for'ard,' and
'now ease her a trifle aft,' and the like, he said composedly, 'All
clear!' and the line and the boat came free together.

Accepting Lightwood's proffered hand to help him up, he then put on his
coat, and said to Riderhood, 'Hand me over those spare sculls of yours,
and I'll pull this in to the nearest stairs. Go ahead you, and keep out
in pretty open water, that I mayn't get fouled again.'

His directions were obeyed, and they pulled ashore directly; two in one
boat, two in the other.

'Now,' said Mr Inspector, again to Riderhood, when they were all on the
slushy stones; 'you have had more practice in this than I have had, and
ought to be a better workman at it. Undo the tow-rope, and we'll help
you haul in.'

Riderhood got into the boat accordingly. It appeared as if he had
scarcely had a moment's time to touch the rope or look over the stern,
when he came scrambling back, as pale as the morning, and gasped out:

'By the Lord, he's done me!'

'What do you mean?' they all demanded.

He pointed behind him at the boat, and gasped to that degree that he
dropped upon the stones to get his breath.

'Gaffer's done me. It's Gaffer!'

They ran to the rope, leaving him gasping there. Soon, the form of the
bird of prey, dead some hours, lay stretched upon the shore, with a new
blast storming at it and clotting the wet hair with hail-stones.

Father, was that you calling me? Father! I thought I heard you call me
twice before! Words never to be answered, those, upon the earth-side
of the grave. The wind sweeps jeeringly over Father, whips him with the
frayed ends of his dress and his jagged hair, tries to turn him where he
lies stark on his back, and force his face towards the rising sun, that
he may be shamed the more. A lull, and the wind is secret and prying
with him; lifts and lets falls a rag; hides palpitating under another
rag; runs nimbly through his hair and beard. Then, in a rush, it cruelly
taunts him. Father, was that you calling me? Was it you, the voiceless
and the dead?