"'Bout ship" went Jim, and away with a stiff breeze on his quarter. He soon found the fleet--a crowd of smacks, all heading in the same direction, with their huge trawling nets down and bending over before what was styled a good "fishing-breeze." It requires a stiff breeze to haul a heavy net, with its forty or fifty feet beam and other gear, over the rough bottom of the North Sea. With a slight breeze and the net down a smack would be simply anchored by the stern to her own gear. Down went Jim's net, and, like a well-drilled fisherman, he fell into line. It was a rough grey day with a little snow falling, which whitened all the ropes and covered the decks with slush. Greely's crew had become demoralised, like their skipper. There were five men and a fair-haired boy. All could drink and swear except the boy. Charlie was the only son of his mother, and she was a good woman, besides being a widow. Charlie was the smack's cook. "Grub's ready," cried the boy, putting his head up the hatchway after the gear was down. He did not name the meal. Smacksmen have a way of taking food irregularly at all or any hours, when circumstances permit, and are easy about the name so long as they get it, and plenty of it. A breakfast at mid-day after a night of hardest toil might be regarded indifferently as a luncheon or an early dinner. Black Whistler, the mate, who stood at the helm, pronounced a curse upon the weather by way of reply to Charlie's summons. "You should rather bless the ladies on shore that sent you them wursted mittens an' 'elmet, you ungrateful dog," returned the boy with a broad grin, for he and Whistler were on familiar terms. The man growled something inaudible, while his mates went below to feed. Each North Sea trawling fleet acts unitedly under an "admiral." It was early morning when the signal was given by rocket to haul up the nets. Between two and three hours at the capstan--slow, heavy toil, with every muscle strained to the utmost--was the result of the admiral's order. Bitter cold; driving snow; cutting flashes of salt spray, and dark as Erebus save for the light of a lantern lashed to the mast. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the seemingly everlasting round went on, with the clank of heavy sea-boots and the rustle of hard oil-skins, and the sound of labouring breath as accompaniment; while the endless cable came slowly up from the "vasty deep." But everything comes to an end, even on the North Sea! At last the great beam appears and is secured. With a sigh of relief the capstan bars are thrown down, and the men vary their toil by clawing up the net with scarred and benumbed fingers. It is heavy work, causes much heaving and gasping, and at times seems almost too much for all hands to manage. Again Black Whistler pronounces a malediction on things in general, and is mockingly reminded by the boy-cook that he ought to bless the people as sends him wursted cuffs to save his wrists from sea-blisters.