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“The busy tribes o’ flesh and blood,
With all their cares and fears–“

Ay, ‘cares and fears’; that’s of it–

“Are carried downward by the flood,
And lost in followin’ years.”

“Poor Daniel–poor boy!”

Pilot Matthey sat silent for a while, staring out over the water in the wake of the boats that already had begun to melt into the shadow of darkness.

“‘Twas beautiful sunshiny weather, too, as I mind,” he resumed. “One o’ those calm spells that happen, as often as not, just about Christmas. I remember drawin’ your attention to it, sir, one Christmas when I passed you the compliments of the season; and you put it down to kingfishers, which I thought strange at the time.”

“Kingfishers?” echoed I, mystified for the moment. “Oh, yes”–as light broke on me–“Halcyon days, of course!”

“That’s right,” Pilot Matthey nodded. “That’s what you called ’em. . . . It took us a whole day to work past the tides of the Start. Then, about sunset, a light draught off the land helped us to Bolt Tail, and after that we mostly drifted all night, with here and there a cat’s-paw, down across Bigbury Bay. By five in the morning we were inside the Eddystone, with Plymouth Sound open, and by twelve noon we was just in the very same place. It was Christmas Eve, sir.

“I looked at Daniel’s face, and then a notion struck me. It was foolish I hadn’t thought of it before.

“‘See here, boys,’ I says. (There was three. My second son, Sam, Daniel, and Daniel’s brother, Dick, a youngster of sixteen or so.) ‘Get out the boat,’ I says,’ and we’ll tow her into Plymouth. If you’re smart we may pluck her into Cattewater in time for Daniel to catch a train home. Sam can go home, too, if he has a mind, and the youngster can stay and help me look after things. I’ve seen a many Christmasses,’ said I, ‘and I’d as lief spend this one at Plymouth as anywhere else. You can give ’em all my love, and turn up again the day after Boxin’ Day–and mind you ask for excursion tickets,’ I said.

“They tumbled the boat out fast enough, you may be sure. Leastways the two men were smart enough. But the boy seemed ready to cry, so that my heart smote me. ‘There!’ said I, ‘and Dicky can go too, if he’ll pull for it. I shan’t mind bein’ left to myself. A redeemed man’s never lonely–least of all at Christmas time.’

“Well, sir, they nipped into the boat, leavin’ me aboard to steer; and they pulled–pulled–like as if they’d pull their hearts out. But it happened a strongish tide was settin’ out o’ the Sound, and long before we fetched past the breakwater I saw there was no chance to make Cattewater before nightfall, let alone their gettin’ to the railway station. I blamed myself that I hadn’t thought of it earlier, and so, steppin’ forward, I called out to them to ease up– we wouldn’t struggle on for Cattewater, but drop hook in Jennycliff Bay, somewhere inside of the Merchant Shipping anchorage. As things were, this would save a good hour–more likely two hours. ‘And,’ said I, ‘you can take the boat, all three, and leave her at Barbican steps. Tell the harbour-master where she belongs, and where I’m laying. He’ll see she don’t take no harm, and you needn’t fear but I’ll get put ashore to her somehow. There’s always somebody passin’ hereabouts.’

“‘But look ‘ee here, father,’ said the boys–good boys they were, too–‘What’s to happen if it comes on to blow from south or sou’-west, same as it blew at the beginning of the week?’

“”Tisn’t goin’ to do any such thing,’ said I, for I’d been studyin’ the weather. ‘And, even if it should happen, I’ve signals aboard. ‘Tisn’t the first time, sonnies, I’ve sat out a week-end on board a boat, alone wi’ the Redeemer.’