“Well, he has been engaged in the herring fishery at Peterhead.”
I could not help smiling.
“It is dangerous work, is it not?” I said.
“Ay, that it is, sir. It is all very well and very gay on a fine night when only a gentle breeze is blowing, and the fish seem verily eager to be caught. But ah! when a storm arises, when nets are rent in twain, when the fleet is scattered—all that can’t get speedily into harbour—and driven out to sea, then the danger is indeed great and the sufferings too.
“After a storm like this many a widow and many a fatherless bairn are left to mourn for those they will never, never see again.
“Even at the herring fishery my nephew, I am proud to say, makes himself a general favourite. He is the life and soul of his own crew; but curiously enough, the ‘young minister,’ as he is always called, assembles a crowd around him every evening on the beach, and gives a lecture that causes all hands to laugh, so that sometimes he has to wait for over a minute before he can be heard again.
“But on Sunday afternoon you would not know him to be the same man; for now he gives a sermon, and a most truthful and earnest one it is.
“Just before he left this season, an old Skyeman sent round a bag and collected a little over seven pounds for the ‘young minister.’”
“How exceedingly kind!” I said.
“Yes, and he dared not offend them by refusing.