“Undoubtedly I do,” replied Jessie, with decision. “The whole affair is mysterious—ridiculously so. In truth it seems to me that we are surrounded by mystery.”
“Well, well, sister mine,” said the matter-of-fact Kate, going to a small cupboard and producing an ample work-box that served for both, “whatever mysteries may surround us, it is our business to fulfil our engagements, so we will at once begin our knitting of cuffs and comforters for the fishermen of the North Sea.”
Chapter Six.
The Curse of the North Sea; and the Trawls at Work.
There are few objects in nature, we think, more soothing to the feelings and at the same time more heart-stirring to the soul than the wide ocean in a profound calm, when sky and temperature, health, hour, and other surrounding conditions combine to produce unison of the entire being.
Such were the conditions, one lovely morning about the end of summer, which gladdened the heart of little Billy Bright as he leaned over the side of the Evening Star, and made faces at his own reflected image in the sea, while he softly whistled a slow melody to which the gentle swell beat time.
The Evening Star was at that time the centre of a constellation—if we may so call it—of fishing-smacks, which floated in hundreds around her. It was the “Short Blue” fleet of deep-sea trawlers; so named because of the short square flag of blue by which it was distinguished from other deep-sea fleets—such as the Grimsby fleet, the Columbia fleet, the Great Northern, Yarmouth, Red Cross, and other fleets—which do our fishing business from year’s end to year’s end on the North Sea.
But Billy was thoughtless and apt to enjoy what was agreeable, without reference to its being profitable. Some of the conditions which rejoiced his heart had the reverse effect on his father. That gruff-spirited fisherman did not want oily seas, or serene blue skies, or reflected clouds and sunshine—no, what he wanted was fish, and before the Evening Star could drag her ponderous “gear” along the bottom of the sea, so as to capture fish, it was necessary that a stiffish breeze should not only ruffle but rouse the billows of the North Sea—all the better if it should fringe their crests with foam.