At last up came the hook, with a jerk that sent Charlie backwards; it had been entangled in a large piece of seaweed, that gave way suddenly just as he got it to the surface. "It's very strange," he said, as he examined the hook minutely, longing to find something alive, no matter how small. "It's very strange; I'm always feeling something, and yet I never catch anything." "I tell you what it is, young Scott, if you don't mind what you're about, you'll both feel something and catch something soon that you won't like, perhaps," grumbled the big boy. "Here, Charlie," called Morley Scott, seeing there was likely to be a quarrel, "I want you to run on an errand for me." Charlie looked round, and seeing his father, he jumped up readily. To tell the truth, he was not sorry of the excuse to give up his fishing; he had been thoroughly tired of it for the last quarter of an hour, although he did not like to own it to the other boys. He was a bright, happy-looking little fellow, about eight years of age, with light, waving hair, merry blue eyes, and sunburnt face. "What is it, father?" he asked. "I want you to run and find uncle John; tell him that the _Refuge_ is lying off at sea, waiting for us. Ask him to come with you, because they want to be into the docks to-night." Away ran Charlie with his message, and soon returned with uncle John. All three then made their way to the docks, where a number of small boats were moored. "Do take me with you, father," pleaded Charlie, as the two men jumped into one of the boats and prepared to push off. "No, no, Charlie, not this time," said his father; "remember you have your lessons to learn; besides, I dare say you have not had your tea." "Oh, I can learn my lessons when I come back, and I've got a large bun here," he said, lifting up his jacket to show it; "uncle John bought it for me as we came along. Please do let me go, it's so miserable now, when you are away; I never like to go home, Mrs. Wood is so cross." "Well, jump in then," said his father, with a sigh; he knew how the boy missed his kind, gentle mother. She had been dead nearly six months, and since then Charlie and he seemed to have been without a home. When his wife died Morley Scott scarcely knew what to do for the best. He had no relation who could take charge of Charlie and of his house, so he thought it would be best to sell his furniture and go to lodgings. It seems he had not been very fortunate in his choice, for according to Charlie's account Mrs. Wood, the landlady, was often ill-tempered.