rry, and away she flew seaward. The old man took the helm,
and the boy, who had not spoken, laid in his oar, and facing forward,
put his hand on the foresheet to be ready to go about when the word was
given. The boat was somewhat old and battered, like its master,--the
rigging especially seemed in a bad condition.

The old man saw the boys examining her, and divined their thoughts.
"She's not like one of your fine-painted yachts, young masters; but she
has helped to save your lives, and she'll serve my time, I'm pretty sure
of that," he observed. "She'll be tried, howsomever, not a little
to-night, I'm thinking. We were late as it was coming up from `Put off
shoal,' and this work with you made us still later, so that we shall
have to be thankful if we get into Penmore harbour before the tide
turns."

"She is a good boat, no doubt, and at all events we are most thankful to
you for having by her means saved our lives," said David; and Harry
repeated what he had said.

"No, young masters, it wasn't I saved you, it was God. Don't thank me.
Man can do no good thing of himself, you know, and I couldn't have saved
you if it hadn't been His will." The fishing-boat went careering on
over the foaming seas, guided by the skilful hand of the old man. It is
surprising how much sea a small boat with good beam will go through when
well managed. The old man was far more loquacious than the young one,
who sat quite still forward, only every now and then turning his face
aside as the spray dashed in it, and shaking the water from his
sou'-wester.

To the boys' inquiry of the old man to which place he belonged, "Little
better than a mile to the eastward of where I took you aboard," he
replied; "but when the wind blows as it does now, there's no place for
landing nearer than Penmore harbour. That matters nothing, as we get a
good market for our fish near there, and we have a good lot to sell, you
see." He pointed to the baskets in the centre of the boat, well filled
with mackerel and several other kinds of fish. He told them that his
name was Jonathan Jefferies, that he had married a Cornish woman, and
settled in the parish, and that the lad was his grandson. "Not quite
right up there," he remarked, touching his forehead; "but he is a good
lad, and knows how to do his duty. We call him Tristram Torr, for he is
our daughter's son. She is dead, poor thing, and his father was lost at
sea, we suppose, for he went away and nev