There were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much conversation, for heavy work had still to be done—done, too, in the dark. Turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square boxes called “trunks,” so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next morning. The net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch before daybreak.

Now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing a North Sea hornpipe under one’s feet. Among the dangers are two which merit notice. The one is the fisherman’s liability, while working among the “ruck,” to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a skate. Either accident may be slight or it may be severe.

A sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning and packing work told that something had happened.

“There goes Martin,” growled Joe Stubley; “you can always tell when it’s him, ’cause he don’t curse an’ swear.”

Stubley—or Stubby, as his mates called him—did not intend this for a compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. Being an irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed religion were hypocritical and silly. Manliness, in poor Jo’s mind, consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general godlessness. With the exception of Fred Martin, the rest of the crew of the Lively Poll resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very different in character,—Lockley, the skipper being genial; Peter Jay, the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; Duffy, jovial and funny; Freeman, kindly, though reckless; and Bob, the boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. They all liked Martin, however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached little.

“What’s wrong?” asked Lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for lights ahead.

“Only a bone into my left hand,” replied Martin, going on with his somewhat dirty labours.

“Well that it’s no worse, boy,” observed Freeman, “for we’ve got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet.”

“That’s true, Jim,” responded Martin; “I wish we had a Gospel smack with our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies.”

“There you go,” growled Stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with a flap of indignation. “A feller can’t mention the name o’ them mission craft without rousin’ you up to some o’ your hypocritical chaff. For my part, if it wasn’t for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think we’d be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call ’em. Why, what good ’ave they done the Short-Blues? I’m sure we doesn’t want churches, or prayin’, or psalm-singin’ or book—”

“Speak for yourself, Jo,” interrupted Puffy.

“Although your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which nothin’ a’most can pass either from books or anything else, you mustn’t think we’ve bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book myself, an’, though I don’t care about prayin’ or psalm-singin’, seein’ I don’t understand ’em, I say ‘good luck’ to the mission smacks, if it was for nothin’ else than the books, an’ doctor stuff, an’ mitts what the shoregoin’ ladies—bless their hearts!—is so fond o’ sendin’ to us.”

“Ay, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say they’re a-goin’ to send to us,” added Freeman.

“P’r’aps they’ll send us cheap grog at last,” said Puffy, with a laugh.

“They’ll hardly do that,” remarked Martin; “for it’s to try an’ keep us from goin’ for our baccy to the copers that they’ve started this new plan.”

“I wish ’em success,” said Lockley, in a serious tone. And there was good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a powerful, almost irresistible, temptation.

When the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to snatch a few hours’ repose. Wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or other. Kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats and sou’-westers, they tumbled into their narrow “bunks” and fell asleep almost without winking.

There was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night. Fred Martin was soon awakened by the pain of his wound, which had begun to inflame, and by a feeling of giddiness and intense uneasiness with which he had been troubled for several days past.

Turning out at last, he sat down in front of the little iron stove that served to cook food as well as to warm the cabin, and, gazing into the embers, began to meditate on his strangely uncomfortable sensations.

“Hallo, Martin, anything wrong?” asked the mate, who descended at that moment to relight his pipe.

“I believe there is, mate. I never felt like this afore. I’ve fowt against it till I can hardly stand. I feel as if I was goin’ to knock under altogether. This hand, too, seems gittin’ bad. I do think my blood must be poisoned, or somethin’ o’ that sort. You know I don’t easily give in, but when a feller feels as if little red-hot wires was twistin’ about inside of him, an’ sees things goin’ round as if he was drunk, why—”

“Why, it’s time to think of goin’ home,” interrupted Jay, with a laugh. “But let’s have a look at you, Fred. Well, there does seem to be some o’ your riggin’ slack. Have you ever had the measles?”

“Not as I knows of.”

“Looks like it,” said the mate, lighting his pipe. “P’r’aps it’ll be as well to send you into dock to refit. You’d better turn in again, anyhow, for a snooze would do you good.”

Fred Martin acted on this advice, while Jay returned to the deck; but it was evident that the snooze was not to be had, for he continued to turn and toss uneasily, and to wonder what was wrong with him, as strong healthy men are rather apt to do when suddenly seized with sickness.

At grey dawn the admiral signalled again. The order was to haul up the nets, which had been scraping the bottom of the sea since midnight, and the whole fleet set to work without delay.

Martin turned out with the rest, and tried to defy sickness for a time, but it would not do. The strong man was obliged to succumb to a stronger than he—not, however, until he had assisted as best as he could in hauling up the trawl.

This second haul of the gear of the Lively Poll illustrated one of those mishaps to which all deep-sea trawlers are liable, and which are of frequent occurrence. A piece of wreck or a lost anchor, or something, had caught the net, and torn it badly, so that when it reached the surface all the fish had escaped.

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