Light began to break in on the dark mind of David Bright, as he listened to these words, and earnestly did he ponder them, long after the speaker and the rest of the crew had turned in.
Daylight began to flow softly over the sea, like a mellow influence from the better land, when the net was hauled.
Soon the light intensified and showed the rest of the fleet floating around in all directions, and busily engaged in the same work—two of the nearest vessels being the mission smack and that of Singing Peter. Ere long the fish were cleaned, packed, put on board the steamer and off to market. By that time a dead calm prevailed, compelling the fishermen to “take things easy.”
“Billy,” said David Bright, “fetch me that bit of wood and a hatchet.”
Billy obeyed.
“Now then, let’s see how well you’ll cut that down to the size o’ this trunk—to fit on where that bit has bin tore off.”
The skipper was seated on a pile of boxes; he flung his left hand with a careless swing on the fish-box on which Billy was about to cut the piece of wood, and pointed to the trunk which needed repair. Billy raised the axe and brought it down with the precision and vigour peculiar to him. Instead of slicing off a lamp of wood, however, the hatchet struck a hard knot, glanced off, and came down on his father’s open palm, into which it cut deeply.
“Oh! father,” exclaimed the poor boy, dropping the axe and standing as if petrified with horror as the blood spouted from the gaping wound, flowed over the fish-box, and bespattered the deck.
He could say no more.
“Shove out the boat, boys,” said the skipper promptly, as he shut up the wounded hand and bound it tightly in that position with his pocket-handkerchief to stop the bleeding.