Surely on such a night as this every fishing-boat would seek shelter, and vessels near to the land would make good their offing for safety’s sake.
There were those who, gazing out upon the storm from the green plateau above Daddy’s Hole, where the coastguard station now is, thought otherwise.
Daddy’s Hole is a sort of inlet or indentation in the rock-wall, which rises so steeply up to the plain above that, though covered with grass, it seems hardly to afford foothold for goats. No man in his senses would venture to descend from above in a straight line, nor even by zigzag, were it not for the fact that here and there through the smooth green surface rocks protrude which would break his fall.
Shading their eyes with their hands in the gathering gloom, with faces seaward, stood two rough-looking men, of the class we might call amphibious—men at home either on the water or on shore.
“It can’t be done,” said one. “No, capting, it can’t.”
“Can’t?” thundered the other; “and I tells yew, Dan, the skipper o’ the Brixham knows no such a word as ‘can’t.’ He’s comin’. Yew’ll see. Hawkins never hauled ’is wind yet where a bit o’ the yellow was tow be made. Us’ll drink wine in France to-morrow, sure’s my name is Scrivings.”
Dan shook his head.
“W’y, yew soft-hearted chap, for tew pins I’d pitch yew ower the cliff.”
But as “Capting” Scrivings laughed while he spoke, and shook his friend roughly by the shoulder, there was little chance of the terrible threat being fulfilled.
“And min’ yew, Dan,” he added, “if us lands this un all right, us’ll be rich, lad—ha! ha! Besides, wot’s Hawkins got tow be afear’d of? The Brixham can cut the winkers from the wind’s eye, that she can. Tack and ’alf tack though buried in green seas, Dan. Never saw a craft tow sail closer tow a wind. Here’s tow bold Hawkins and the brave Brixham!”