“Twenty quintal come aboard at Highwater Cove. I mind it well.”
“They been dyin’ like flies at Seldom Cove.”
“Like flies?” Docks repeated, in a hoarse whisper. “Skipper Billy, sir, who—who died—like that?”
Skipper Billy drew his hand over his mouth. “One was a kid,” he said, tugging at his moustache.
“My God!” Docks muttered. “One was a kid!”
In the pause—in the silence into which the far-off, wailing chorus of wind and sea crept unnoticed—Skipper Billy and Docks stared into each other’s eyes.
“An’ a kid died, too,” said the skipper.
Again the low, wailing chorus of wind and sea, creeping into the silence. I saw the light in Skipper Billy’s eyes sink from a flare to a glow; and I was glad of that.
“’Twas a cold, wet day, with the wind blowin’ in from the sea, when we dropped anchor at Little Harbour Deep,” Docks continued. “We always kep’ the forecastle closed tight an’ set a watch when we was in port; an’ the forecastle was tight enough that day, but the second hand, whose watch it was, had t’ help with the fish, for ’tis a poor harbour there, an’ we was in haste t’ get out. The folk was loafin’ about the deck, fore an’ aft, waitin’ turns t’ weigh fish or be served in the cabin. An’ does you know what happened?” Docks asked, tensely. “Can’t you see how ’twas? Believe me, sir, ’twas a cold, wet day, a bitter day; an’ ’tis no wonder that one o’ they folk went below t’ warm hisself at the forecastle stove—went below, where poor Tommy Mib was lyin’ sick. Skipper, sir,” said Docks, with wide eyes, leaning over the table and letting his voice drop, “I seed that man come up—come tumblin’ up like mad, sir, his face so white as paint. He’d seed Tommy Mib! An’ he yelled, sir; an’ Skipper Jim whirled about when he heard that word, an’ I seed his lips draw away from his teeth.
“‘Over the side, every man o’ you!’ sings he.