"Evenin', young gents," was Skipper Runswick's curt greeting. Then, eyeing the big hamper that accompanied his guests, he added, with typical Yorkshire candour: "An' what might you be? Dost tha' think tha'lt not be fed properly?"
"Oh, no, Captain Runswick," Leslie hastened to explain. "It's our contribution to be shared by all hands."
"Let's hope that you'll be ready to do your share o' things," rejoined the skipper grimly, as he regarded his two amateurs in their spotless white duck overalls with certain amount of disdain. "Stow the gear over agin' yon hatchway. Andrew'll pass it below in a minute. Now clap on yon rope and heave till you crack your ribs."
The voyage to the fishing grounds had begun in earnest.
Skipper Runswick had sailed the Laughing Lassie for nearly forty years. She was by no means a new boat when he first set foot upon her deck; but, like many another veteran of the North Sea, the ketch was soundly and powerfully built. She was a Weatherly craft, with a fair turn of speed. It wasn't safe for anyone to say a word against her in the skipper's presence.
The "old man" was one of an old school. He knew the fishing grounds as well as a Londoner knows the Strand—perhaps better. The use of the sextant was beyond him, yet solely by the aid of compass and lead-line would he find his way across the vast, trackless expanse of the North Sea to his favourite "grounds," where a cast of the trawl never failed to produce a goodly haul. Putting his trust in Providence, bad weather failed to daunt him.
Their work done for the time being, Leslie and Guy went aft, and, sitting on a coil of rope close to the taffrail, watched the rapidly receding cliffs of the rugged Yorkshire coast, thrown into strong relief by the setting sun.
The watch on deck, consisting of Old Mick and George the cook, commonly referred to as Long Garge—had trimmed and fixed the red and green navigation lamps. The wind had fallen light, and the Laughing Lassie rolled laboriously in the long, sullen swell.
Old Mick was standing at the tiller, with legs stretched wide apart, and his hands in his pockets. His work for the time being consisted in doing nothing, for the ketch barely carried steerage way. Long Garge was for'ard scratching the foremast and whistling blithely in the hope, common to the old-time seamen, that the joint action would result in a breeze.
"Better now than when we've got the holds full of fish," declared the skipper, commenting upon the lack of wind.