Chapter Four.
Billy Bright the Fisher-Boy visits London—has a Fight—enlarges his Mind, and undertakes Business.
We must now return to the Evening Star fishing-smack, but only for a few minutes at present. Later on we shall have occasion to visit her under stirring circumstances. We saw her last heading eastward to her fishing-ground in the North Sea. We present her now, after a two months’ trip, sailing to the west, homeward bound.
Eight weeks at sea; nine days on shore, is the unvarying routine of the North Sea smacksman’s life, summer and winter, all the year round. Two months of toil and exposure of the severest kind, fair-weather or foul, and little more than one week of repose in the bosom of his family—varied by visits more or less frequent to the tap-room of the public-house. It is a rugged life to body and soul. Severest toil and little rest for the one; strong temptation and little refreshment to the other.
“Strong temptation!” you exclaim, “what! out on the heaving billows and among the howling gales of winter on the North Sea?”
Ay, stronger temptation than you might suppose, as, in the sequel, you shall see.
But we are homeward bound just now. One of the gales above referred to is blowing itself out and the Evening Star is threading her way among the shoals to her brief repose in Yarmouth.
The crew are standing about the deck looking eagerly towards the land, and little Billy is steering. (See Frontispiece.)
Yes, that ridiculous atom of humanity, with a rope, or “steering lanyard,” round the tiller to prevent its knocking him down or sweeping him overboard, stands there guiding the plunging smack on her course through the dangerous shoals. Of course Billy’s father has an eye on him, but he does not require to say more than an occasional word at long intervals.
Need we observe that our little hero is no longer subject to the demon which felled him at starting, and made his rosy face so pale? One glance at the healthy brown cheeks will settle that question. Another glance at his costume will suffice to explain, without words, much of Billy’s life during the past eight weeks. The sou’-wester is crushed and soiled, the coat is limp, rent, mended, button-bereaved more or less, and bespattered, and the boots wear the aspect of having seen service. The little hands too, which even while ashore were not particularly white, now bear traces of having had much to do with tar, and grease, and fishy substances, besides being red with cold, swelled with sundry bruises, and seamed with several scars—for Billy is reckless by nature, and it takes time and much experience of suffering to teach a man how to take care of his hands in the fisheries of the North Sea!