Fog—thick, stifling, clammy! A vast bank of it lay stranded on the rocks of our coast: muffling voices, making men gasp. In a murky cloud it pressed against my mother’s windows. Wharves, cottages, harbour water, great hills beyond—the whole world—had vanished. There was nothing left but a patch of smoking rock beneath. It had come—a grey cloud, drifting low and languidly—with a lazy draught of wind from the east, which had dragged it upon the coast, spread it broadcast and expired of the effort to carry it into the wilderness.

“Wonderful thick, b’y!” was the salutation for the day.

“’S mud,” was the response.

Down went the barometer—down, down, slowly, uncompromisingly down! ’Twas shocking to the nerves to consult it.

“An’ I’m tellin’ you this, lads,” said a man on my father’s wharf, tugging uneasily at his sou’wester, “that afore midnight you’ll be needin’ t’ glue your hair on!”

This feeling of apprehension was everywhere—on the roads, in the stages, in the very air. No man of our harbour put to sea. With the big wind coming, ’twas no place for punt, schooner or steamer. The waters off shore were set with traps for the unwary and the unknowing—the bluffs veiled by mist, the drift ice hidden, the reefs covered up. In a gale of wind from the east there would be no escape.

Through the dragging day my mother had been restless and in pain. In the evening she turned to us.

“I’m tired,” she whispered.

Tired? Oh, ay! She was tired—very, very tired! It was near time for her to rest. She was sadly needing that.

“An’ will you try t’ sleep, now?” my sister asked.

“Ay,” she answered, wanly, “I’ll sleep a bit, now, if I can. Where’s Davy?”

“Sure, mama,” said I, in surprise, “I’m sittin’ right by the bed!”

“Ah, Davy!” she whispered, happily, stretching out a hand to touch me. “My little son!”

“An’ I been sittin’ here all the time!” said I.

“All the time?” she said. “But I’ve been so sick, dear, I haven’t noticed much. And ’tis so dark.”

“No, mum; ’tis not so very. ’Tis thick, but ’tis not so very dark. ’Tis not lamp-lightin’ time yet.”

“How strange!” she muttered. “It seems so very dark. Ah, well! Do you go out for a run in the air, dear, while your mother sleeps. I’m thinking I’ll be better—when I’ve had a little sleep.”

My sister busied herself with the pillows and coverlet; and she made all soft and neat, that my mother might rest the better for it.

“You’re so tender with me, dear,” said my mother “Every day I bless God for my dear daughter.”

My sister kissed my mother. “Hush!” she said. “Do you go t’ sleep, now, little mother. Twill do you good.”

“Yes,” my mother sighed, “for I’m—so very—tired.”

When she had fallen asleep, I slung my lantern over my arm and scampered off to the Rat Hole to yarn with the twins, making what speed I could in the fog and untimely dusk, and happy, for the moment, to be free of the brooding shadow in our house. The day was not yet fled; but the light abroad—a sullen greyness, splashed with angry red in the west, where the mist was thinning—was fading fast and fearfully. And there was an ominous stirring of wind in the east: at intervals, storm puffs came swirling over the hills from the sea; and they ran off inland like mad, leaving the air of a sudden once more stagnant. Fresh and cool they were—grateful enough, indeed, blowing through the thick, dead dusk—but sure warning, too, of great gusts to come. We were to have weather—a gale from the northeast, by all the lore of the coast—and it would be a wild night, with the breakers of Raven Rock and the Thirty Black Devils leaping high and merrily in the morning. As I ran down the last hill, with an eye on the light glowing in the kitchen window of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy’s cottage, I made shift to hope that the old man had made harbour from Wolf Cove, but thought it most unlikely.

He had.

“You got home, Skipper Tommy,” I cried, shouldering the door shut against a gust of wind, “an’ I’m glad o’ that! ’Tis goin’ t’ blow most awful, I’m thinkin’.”

My welcome was of the gloomiest description. I observed that the twins, who lay feet to feet on the corner-seat, did not spring to meet me, but were cast down; and that Skipper Tommy, himself, sitting over the fire with a cup of tea on the table at his elbow, was glum as a deacon.

“Oh,” said he, looking up with the ghost of a laugh, “I got in. You wasn’t frettin’ about me, was you, Davy? Oh, don’t you ever go frettin’ about me, lad, when—ah, well!—when they’s nothin’ but fog t’ fear. Sure, ’twasn’t no trouble for me t’ find North Tickle in the fog. Ah, me! If ’twas only that! Sure, I bumped her nose agin the point o’ God’s Warning, an’ rattled her bones a bit, but, lad, me an’ the punt is used t’ little things like that. Oh, ay,” he repeated, dismally, “I got in.”

Evidently the worst had happened. “Did you?” said I, blankly. “An’ was you—was you—cotched?”

“Is you thinkin’ o’ she, Davy?” he answered. “Well,” in a melancholy drawl, smoothing his stubble of grey beard, his forehead deeply furrowed, “I’m not admittin’ I is. But, Davy,” he added, “she cast a hook, an’—well, I—I nibbled. Yes, I did, lad! I went an’ nibbled!”

One of the twins started up in alarm. “Hark!” he whispered.

We listened—but heard nothing. A gust of wind rattled the window, and, crying hoarsely, swept under the house. There was nothing more than that.

“Hist!” said the twin.

We heard only the ominous mutter and sigh of the gust departing.

“Jacky,” said the skipper, anxiously, “what was you thinkin’ you heared, b’y?”

Jacky fidgetted in his seat. “’Twas like the mail-boat’s whistle, zur,” he answered, “but ’twas sort o’ hoarser.”

“Why, lad,” said the skipper, “the mail-boat’s not handy by two hundred miles! ’Twas but the wind.”

But he scratched his head in a puzzled way.

“Ay, maybe, zur,” Jacky replied, still alert for a sound from the sea, “but ’twas not like the wind.”

Skipper Tommy held up his hand. “Ay,” said he, when we had listened a long time, “’twas but the wind.”

“Ay,” said we all, “’twas but the wind.”

“Ah, well, Davy,” the skipper resumed, “she cast a hook, as I was sayin’, an’ I nibbled.”

The twins groaned in concert.

“But the good Lard, Davy,” the skipper went on, “had sent a switch o’ wind from the sou’west. So they was a bit o’ lop on the sea, an’ ’twas t’ that I turned, when the case got desperate. An’ desperate it soon got, lad. Ah, indeed! ’long about Herring Head it got fair desperate. ‘Skipper Thomas,’ says she, ‘we’re gettin’ old, you an’ me,’ says she. ‘Sure, mum,’ says I, ‘not you, mum! I’ll never give in t’ that,’ says I.”

Our faces fell.

“’Twas what I done,” the skipper persisted, with an air of guilt and remorse. “I just, felt like doin’ it, an’ so I done it. ‘I’ll never give in to it, mum,’ says I, ‘that you’re gettin’ old.’”

I groaned with the twins—and Skipper Tommy made a dismal quartette of it—and the wind, rising sharply at that moment, contributed a chorus of heartrending noises.

“Ay,” the skipper continued, “’twas a sad mistake. ’Twas floutin’ Providence t’ say a word like that to a woman like she. But I just felt like it. Then, ‘Oh, dear,’ says she, ‘’tis barb’rous lonely t’ Wolf Cove,’ says she. ‘’Tis too bad, mum,’ says I. An’ I throwed the bow o’ the punt plump into a wave, Davy, lad, an’ shipped a bucket o’ water. ‘An’,’ says she, ‘it must be lonely for you, Skipper Thomas,’ says she, ‘livin’ there at the Rat Hole.’”

Skipper Tommy paused to sigh and tweak his nose; and he tweaked so often and sighed so long that I lost patience.

“An’ what did you do then?” I demanded.

“Took in more water, Davy,” he groaned, “for they wasn’t nothin’ else I could think of. ‘An’,’ says she, ‘is it not lonely, Skipper Thomas,’ says she, ‘at the Rat Hole?’ ‘No, mum,’ says I, takin’ aboard another bucket or two, ‘for I’ve the twins,’ says I. With that she put her kerchief to her eyes, Davy, an’ begun t’ sniffle. An’ t’ relieve me feelin’s, lad, for I was drove desperate, I just had t’ let the top of a wave fall over the bow: which I done, Davy, an’ may the Lard forgive me! An’ I’m not denyin’ that ’twas a sizable wave she took.”

He stared despondently at the floor.

“She gathered up her skirts,” he went on. “An’, ‘Ah, Skipper Thomas,’ says she, ‘twins,’ says she, ‘is nothin’. ‘Sure,’ says she, ‘twins is no good on a cold winter’s night.’ I’m not denyin’, Davy,” said the skipper, solemnly, looking me straight in the eye, “that she scared me with that. I’m not denyin’ that me hand slipped. I’m not denyin’ that I put the tiller over a wee bit too far—maybe a foot—maybe a foot an’ a half, in the excitement o’ the moment—I isn’t quite sure. No, no! I’m far, lad, from denyin’ that I near swamped the boat. ‘’Tis gettin’ rough,’ says she. ‘Ay,’ says I, ‘an’ we’ll be gettin’ along a deal better, mum,’ says I, ‘if you bail.’ So I kep’ her bailin’, Davy,” the skipper concluded, with a long sigh and a sad wag of the head, “from Herring Head t’ Wolf Cove. An’, well, lad, she didn’t quite cotch me, for she hadn’t no time t’ waste, but, as I was sayin’, she cast a hook.”

“You’re well rid o’ she,” said I.

Timmie rose to look out of the window. “Hear the wind!” said he, turning in awe, while the cottage trembled under the rush of a gust. “My! but ’twill blow, the night!”

“Ah, Timmie,” sighed the skipper, “what’s a gale o’ wind t’ the snares o’ women!”

“Women!” cried I. “Sure, she’ll trouble you no more. You’re well rid o’ she.”

“But I isn’t rid o’ she, Davy,” he groaned, “an’ that’s what’s troublin’ the twins an’ me. I isn’t rid o’ she, for I’ve heared tell she’ve some l’arnin’ an’ can write a letter.”

“Write!” cried I. “She won’t write.”

“Ah, Davy,” sighed the skipper, his head falling over his breast, “you’ve no knowledge o’ women. They never gives in, lad, that they’re beat. They never knows they’re beat. An’ that one, lad, wouldn’t know it if she was told!”

“Leave her write so much as she wants,” said I. “’Twill do you no harm.”

“No harm?” said he, looking up. “No harm in writin’?”

“No,” said I. “Sure, you can’t read!”

The twins leaped from the corner-seat and emitted a shrill and joyful whoop. Skipper Tommy threw back his head, opened his great mouth in silent laughter, and slapped his thigh with such violence that the noise was like a pistol shot.

“No more I can,” he roared, “an’ I’m too old t’ l’arn!”

Laughter—a fit of it—seized him. It exploded like a thunder-clap, and continued, uproariously, interrupted by gasps, when he lost his breath, and by groans, when a stitch made him wince. There was no resisting it. The twins doubled up in the corner-seat, miserably screaming, their heels waving in the air; and Davy Roth collapsed on the floor, gripping his sides, his eyes staring, his mouth wide open, venting his mirth, the while, in painful shrieks. Skipper Tommy was himself again—freed o’ the nets o’ women—restored to us and to his own good humour—once again boon comrade of the twins and me! He jumped from his chair; and with a “Tra-la-la!” and a merry “Hi-tum-ti-iddle-dee-um!” he fell into a fantastic dance, thumping the boards with his stockinged feet, advancing and retreating with a flourish, bowing and balancing to an imaginary partner, all in a fashion so excruciatingly exaggerated that the twins screamed, “Don’t, father!” and Davy Roth moaned, “Oh, stop, zur, please, zur!” while the crimson, perspiring, light-footed, ridiculously bow-legged old fellow still went cavorting over the kitchen floor.

But I was a child—only a child—living in the shadow of some great sorrow, which, though I did not know it, had pressed close upon us. There flashed before me a vision of my mother lying wan and white on the pillows. And I turned on my face and began to cry.

“Davy, lad!” said the skipper, tenderly, seeking to lift my head. “Hush, lad! Don’t cry!”

But I sobbed the harder.

“Ah, Davy,” the twins pleaded, “stop cryin’! Do, now!”

Skipper Tommy took me on his knee; and I hid my face on his breast, and lay sobbing hopelessly, while he sought to sooth me with many a pat and “Hush!” and “Never mind!”

“I’m wantin’ t’ go home,” I moaned.

He gathered me closer in his arms. “Do you stay your grief, Davy,” he whispered, “afore you goes.”

“I’m wantin’ t’ go home,” I sobbed, “t’ my mother!”

Timmie and Jacky came near, and the one patted my hand, and the other put an arm around me.

“Sure, the twins ’ll take you home, Davy,” said the skipper, softly, “when you stops cryin’. Hush, lad! Hush, now!”

They were tender with me, and I was comforted; my sobs soon ceased, but still I kept my head against the skipper’s breast. And while there I lay, there came from the sea—from the southwest in a lull of the wind—breaking into the tender silence—the blast of a steam whistle, deep, full-throated, prolonged.

“Hist!” whispered Jacky. “Does you not hear?”

Skipper Tommy stood me on my feet, and himself slowly rose, listening intently.

“Lads,” he asked, his voice shaking, “was it the mail-boat?”

“No, zur!” the twins gasped.

“Is you sure?”

“’Tis not the way she blows, zur!”

“’Tis surely not she,” the skipper mused. “In the sou’west she’d be out of her course. Hark!”

Once more the long, hoarse roar broke the silence, but now rising again and again, agonized, like a cry for help.

“Dear Lard!” skipper Tommy cried, putting his hands to his face. “’Tis a big steamer on the Thirty Black Devils!”

“A wreck!” shouted Jacky, leaping for his jacket. “A wreck! A wreck!”

Distraction seized the skipper. “’Tis a wreck!” he roared. “My boots, lads! Wreck! Wreck!”

We lads went mad. No steamer had been wrecked on the coast in our time. There were deeds to do! There was salvage to win!

“Wreck!” we screamed. “Wreck! Wreck! Wreck!”

Then out we four ran. It was after dark. The vault was black. But the wind had turned the fog to thin mist. The surrounding hills stood disclosed—solid shadows in the night. Half a gale was blowing from the sea: it broke over the hills; it swooped from the inky sky; it swept past in long, clinging gusts. We breasted it heads down. The twins raised the alarm. Wreck! Wreck! Folk joined us as we ran. They were in anxious haste to save life. They were gleeful with the hope of salvage. What the sea casts up the Lord provides! Wreck! Wreck! Far-off cries answered us. The cottage windows were aglow. Lanterns danced over the flakes. Lights moved over the harbour water. Wreck! Wreck! On we stumbled. Our feet struck the road with thud and scrape. Our lanterns clattered and buzzed and fluttered. Wreck! Wreck! We plunged down the last hill and came gasping to my father’s wharf.

Most of our folk were already vigorously underway towards South Tickle.

“Lives afore salvage, lads!” my father shouted from his punt.

My sister caught my arm.

“’Tis a big steamer, Bessie!” I cried, turning.

“Ay,” she said, hurriedly. “But do you go stay with mother, Davy. She’ve sent me t’ Tom Turr’s by the path. They’re t’ fetch the wrecked folk there. Make haste, lad! She’ve been left alone.”

I ran up the path to our house.