No matter! The man who would blench at even two hundred
yards of water, with waves even three inches high is totally, unworthy
of the name of a British Seadog! One thought of friends and mother dear;
one last look at the Club where that sole was served, and then, with all
the ferocious determination of his conquering race, the Seadog bids the
men give way. It is an awful sight! Four strokes, and the bow man
receives as nearly as possible half a pint of water on his jersey!
Steady! No shirking, my sons of the sea-kings. Twenty strokes more--the
peril is past; and the Seadog bounds on to the deck of his stout vessel.
He is saved. A basket with a turbot is in the stern-sheets; that turbot
will form part of the Seadog's humble evening meal. It cost a guinea,
and the North Sea amateurs, who received two shillings of that amount,
would doubtless rejoice could they know that they risked their lives in
a tearing August gale to provide for the wants of a brother Seadog.
By the time Lewis had finished his heroic reverie, he was nicely sheeted
with ice, for the spray froze as it fell, and he was alongside of the
smack that he wanted--which was more to the purpose. In a few minutes he
was engaged in dealing with a prosaic, crushed foot. A heavy boat had
jammed his patient against the iron side of the steam-carrier. The man
was stoical, like the rest of his mates, but he was in torture, for the
bones were all huddled into a twisted mass--a gruesome thing, ladies,
and a common thing, too, if you would but think it.
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