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“That settled it, sir. It relieved ’em a bit, too, when they spied another lugger already lyin’ inside the anchorage, and made her out for a Porthleven boat, the Maid in Two Minds, that had been after the herrings with the rest of us up to a fortni’t ago, or maybe three weeks: since when we hadn’t seen her. As I told you, the weather had been cruel, and the catches next to nothing; and belike she’d given it up earlier than we and pushed for home. At any rate, here she was. We knowed her owners, as fishermen do; but we’d never passed word with her, nor with any of her crew. I’d heard somewhere–but where I couldn’t recollect–that the skipper was a blasphemous man, given to the drink, and passed by the name of Dog Mitchell; but ’twas hearsay only. All I noted, or had a mind to note, as we dropped anchor less than a cable length from her, was that she had no boat astern or on deck (by which I concluded the crew were ashore), and that Dog Mitchell himself was on deck. I reckernised him through the glass. He made no hail at all, but stood leanin’ by the mizen and smokin’, watchin’ what we did. By then the dark was comin’ down.

“Well, sir, I looked at my watch, and there was no time to be choice about position; no time even for the lads to get aboard and pack their bags. I ran forward, heaved anchor, cast off tow-line, an’ just ran below, and came up with an armful o’ duds which I tossed into the boat as she dropped back alongside. I fished the purse out of my pocket, and two sovereigns out o’ the purse. ‘That’ll take ‘ee home and back,’ said I, passin’ the money to Daniel. ‘So long, children! You haven’t no time to spare.’

“Away they pulled, callin’ back, ‘God bless ‘ee, father!’ and the like; words I shan’t forget. . . . Poor Daniel! . . . And there, all of a sudden, was I, left to spend Christmas alone: which didn’t trouble me at all.

“‘Stead o’ which, as you might say, havin’ downed sail and made things pretty well shipshape on deck, I went below and trimmed and lit the riding light. When I came on deck with it the Maid in Two Minds was still in darkness. ‘That’s queer,’ thought I; but maybe the Early and Late’s light reminded Dog Mitchell of his, for a few minutes later he fetched it up and made it fast, takin’ an uncommon long time over the job and mutterin’ to himself all the while. (For I should tell you that, the weather bein’ so still and the distance not a hundred yards, I could hear every word.)

“‘Twas then, I think, it first came into my mind that the man was drunk, and five minutes later I was sure of it: for on his way aft he caught his foot and tripped over something–one o’ the deck-leads maybe–and the words he ripped out ‘twould turn me cold to repeat. His voice was thick, too, and after cursin’ away for half a minute it dropped to a sort of growl, same as you’ll hear a man use when he’s full o’ drink and reckons he has a grudge against somebody or something–he doesn’t quite know which, or what. Thought I, ”Tis a risky game o’ those others to leave a poor chap alone in that state. He might catch the boat afire, for one thing: and, for another, he might fall overboard.’ It crossed my mind, too, that if he fell overboard I hadn’t a boat to pull for him.

“He went below after that, and for a couple of hours no sound came from the Maid in Two Minds. ‘Likely enough,’ thought I, ‘he’s turned in, to sleep it off; and that’s the best could happen to him’; and by and by I put the poor fellow clean out o’ my head. I made myself a dish o’ tea, got out supper, and ate it with a thankful heart, though I missed the boys; but, then again, I no sooner missed them than I praised God they had caught the train. They would be nearin’ home by this time; and I sat for a while picturin’ it: the kitchen, and the women-folk there, that must have made up their minds to spend Christmas without us; particularly Lisbeth Mary–that’s my daughter, Daniel’s wife–with her mother to comfort her, an’ the firelight goin’ dinky-dink round the cups and saucers on the dresser. I pictured the joy of it, too, when Sam or Daniel struck rat-tat and clicked open the latch, or maybe one o’ the gals pricked up an ear at the sound of their boots on the cobbles. I ‘most hoped the lads hadn’t been thoughtful enough to send on a telegram. My mind ran on all this, sir; and then for a moment it ran back to myself, sittin’ there cosy and snug after many perils, many joys; past middle-age, yet hale and strong, wi’ the hand o’ the Lord protectin’ me. ‘The Lord is my shepherd; therefore can I lack nothing. He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort. He shall convert my soul . . .’