“There’ll be widders and orphans in some ports ’fore nightfall.”
“And thank the Lord that won’t be in Hakemouth.”
“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 aren’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 aren’t ship-owners with wessels out yonder.”