“I dunno so much about that,” growled a heavy-looking man, with a fringe of white hair round his face. “Every boat that sails out of this harbour arn’t in port.”
“That it is. Why, what’s yer thinking about?”
“’Bout Van Heldre’s brig, my lad.”
“Ah,” chorused half-a-dozen voices, “we didn’t think o’ she.”
“Been doo days and days,” said the white-fringed old fisherman; “and if she’s out yonder, I say, Lord ha’ mercy on ’em all, Amen.”
“Not had such a storm this time o’ year since the Cape mail were wrecked off the Long Chain.”
“Ah, and that warn’t so bad as this. Bound to say the brig has put into Mount’s Bay.”
“And not a nice place either with the wind this how. Well, my lads, I say there’s blessings and blessings, and we ought all to be werry thankful as we arn’t ship-owners with wessels out yonder.”
This was from the first man who had spoken; but his words were not received with much favour, and as in a lull of the wind one of the men had to use a glass, he growled out,
“Well, I dunno ’bout sending one’s ship to sea in such a storm, but I don’t see as it’s such a very great blessing not to have one of your own, speshly if she happened to be a brig like Mast’ Van Heldre’s!”