"Then what, please?"
"M-m-m." Peter revolved his cloth cap on one finger but said nothing.
"One day in the shipping-room, Captain Crudden, you told me what a comfort it was for a man to be home—of the joy of the easy slippers and the warm fire, of children climbing all over you—of the warm bed every night."
"That's right; I did."
"No more danger, no more hardship, your sure pay every week!"
"I know; I know."
"Then why? Was it the work?"
"The work?" Peter clearly smiled now.
"Haddockin' in South Channel, Mrs. Pentle, workin' fourteen tubs—eight thousand hooks to a dory a day, an' dressin' our deckload o' fish on top o' that—three, four, yes an' five days an' nights runnin' sometimes, with no lookin' at our bunks till we filled her up—! Work? I cal'late I've done more work in South Channel fishin' many a day than in any ten days I ever saw in your store, Mrs. Pentle."
"Then why, please, Captain Crudden, why?"