Late in the afternoon, a little group of fishermen and idlers stood on the beach. They were looking out seaward with some “anxiety, for a sudden wind had arisen, and there was what they called 'an ugly sea.'”
“I tell you it was madness to let 'em go alone on such a day,” said the old sailor with the telescope.
“And I tell you that the old gentleman pulls as good an oar as any of us,” retorted another man, in a blue jersey and a sou'wester.
“Old gentleman, indeed!” broke in the coast guardsman. “Better say devil at once! Why, man alive! Your old gentleman is Luke Raeburn, the atheist.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed the first speaker, lowering his telescope for a moment. “Why, he be mighty friendly to us fishermen.”
“Where be they now, gaffer? D'ye see them?” asked a keen-looking lad of seventeen.
“Ay, there they be! There they be! God have mercy on 'em! They'll be swamped sure as fate!”
The coast guardsman, with provoked sang-froid and indifference, began to sing:
“For though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone alo-o-ft.”
And then breaking off into a sort of recitative.