“Friends,” he said, “we have gathered here to-night to discuss the welfare of Grande Mignon Island and the village of Freekirk Head.”
A look of startled uncertainty swept over the simple, weather-beaten faces in front of him.
“You know that I am not exaggerating,” he continued, “when I say that we are face to face with the gravest problem that has ever confronted us. It has pleased God in His infinite Providence so to direct the finny tribes that the denizens of the deep have altered the location of their usual fishing-grounds.
“Day after day you men have gone forth with nets and lines like the fishers of old; day after day, also like some of the fishers of old, you have returned 52 empty-handed. The salting-bins are not filled, the drying-frames are bare, the shipments to St. John’s have practically ceased.
“I do not need to tell you that this spells destitution. This island depends on its fish, and, since cod and hake and pollock have left us, we must cast about for other means of support.
“This meeting, then, after due deliberation last night and earnest supplication of the Almighty for guidance, has been called to determine what course we shall pursue.”
Mr. Bysshe, warm now and perspiring freely, retired to his seat and mopped his face. Across the audience, which had listened intently, there swept a murmur of low speech.
It is not given to most fisherfolk to know any more than the bare comforts of life. Theirs is an existence of ceaseless toiling, ceaseless danger, and very poor reward. Hardship is their daily lot, and it requires a great incentive to bring them to a full stop in consideration of their future.
Here, then, in Freekirk Head were three hundred fishermen with their backs against the wall––mutely brave because it is bred in the bone––quietly preparing for a final stand against their hereditary enemies, hunger and poverty.
The low murmur of awestruck conversation suddenly stopped, for Squire Hardy, with his fringe of 53 white whiskers violently mussed, had risen to speak.