After admiring the beauty of the bay for a while, I realized that I must look for a place to stay. I was anxious if possible, to find a lodging in one of the cottages, and then, after a good night’s rest, I would carefully select a good subject for my picture. I called at several houses, where I noticed a card in the window announcing Apartments for Rent but I met the same answer everywhere, “Full, Sir, quite full.” In one place I was offered a bed in the kitchen, but the whole place smelled so strongly of fried herrings and fish oil, that I thought it would be far more pleasant to sleep on the beach than to try to sleep in that smelly place.
After wandering up and down for some time, I passed a house close to the village park, and saw the children with whom I’d traveled having supper by the open window. They, too, were eating herrings, and the smell made me hungry. I decided it was time I had something to eat, and I thought my best plan would be to climb back up to the hotel which I’d passed on my way down. It stood at the very top of the high cliff. My legs protested when I thought of the climb. I was tired with my journey, and not very strong. To drag my bag and easel up the steep path would require a real effort at the best of times. I noticed that wooden benches had been placed here and there on the different platforms of the rock, for the convenience of the fishermen, and I decided to rest for a quarter of an hour on one of them before climbing up the steep hill to the hotel. The fishermen filled most of the seats, sitting side by side, row after row of them, talking together, and looking down at the beach below. As I gazed up at them, they looked to me like a flock of birds perched on the steep rock.
To my relief I noticed one empty seat in a quiet corner. I went to it, and laying my backpack and other belongings beside me, I sat down to rest.
But I wasn’t alone for long. A minute afterward a young fisherman, dressed like his mates in a blue sweater and an oilskin cap, planted himself on the other end of my bench.
“Good-day, Sir,” he said. “What do you think of our bay?”
“It’s a pretty place, very pretty,” I said. “I like it well enough now, but I’m sure I’ll like it even better tomorrow.”
“Even better tomorrow,” he repeated; “Well, Sir, in my opinion it is the better for knowing, and I ought to know, if any one should, for I’ve lived here all my life.”
As he spoke I turned to look at him. He was a fine specimen of an honest English fisherman, with dark eyes and hair, and with a sunny smile on his weather-beaten, sunburned face. You only had to look at the man to feel sure that you could trust him, and that, like Nathaniel in the Bible, there was no guile in him.
“I wonder if you could help me,” I said; “I want to find a room here if I can, but every place seems full.”
“Yes, it is full, Sir, in August; that’s the busiest time here. Let me see, there’s Brown’s, they’re full, and Robinson’s, and Wilson’s and Thomson’s, all full up. There’s Giles’s, they have a room, I believe, but they’re not very clean. Maybe you’re particular, Sir?”
“Well,” I said, “I do like things clean; I don’t mind how rough they are if they’re only clean.”
“Well,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye; “you wouldn’t care for one pan to do all the work of the house — to boil the dirty clothes in, and the fish, and your bit of pudding for dinner, and not much cleaning of it in between.”
“No,” I said, laughing; “I certainly wouldn’t like that.”
“Might give the pudding a flavor of stockings, and a sauce of fish oil,” he answered. “Well, you’re right, Sir; I shouldn’t like it myself. Well, then, that being as it is, I wouldn’t go to Giles’s, not if that is the way you feel about pans, Sir.”
“Then I suppose there’s nothing for it but to trudge up to the hotel at the top of the hill,” I said, with something of a groan.
“Well, Sir,” he said, hesitating a little; “me and my missus, we have a room that we rent sometimes but it’s a poor place, Sir, homely you might say. Maybe you wouldn’t put up with it.”
“Would you let me see it?” I asked.
“With pleasure, Sir; it’s rough, but it’s clean. We could promise you a clean pan, Sir. My missus she’s a good one for cleaning; she’s not one of those sloppy, good-for-nothing women. There’s heaps of them here, Sir, idling away their time. She’s a good girl is my Polly. Why, if that isn’t little John clambering up the steps to his daddy!”
He jumped up as he said this, and ran quickly down the steep flight of steps which led down from the edge where the seat was, and soon returned with a little boy of about two years old in his arms.
The child was as fair as his father was dark. He was a handsome boy with light hair and blue eyes, and was nicely dressed in a bright red cap and clean shirt and pants.
“Tea’s ready, Daddy,” said the boy; “come home with little John.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t object to a cup of tea, Sir,” said the father, turning to me. “It’ll cheer you up a bit after your journey, and there’s sure to be herrings. We almost live on herrings here, Sir. Then, if you’re so minded, you can look at the room after,” he added, as he gently patted little John’s small hand which rested on his arm.
“I’ll be glad to come,” I said; “I’m very hungry, and if Polly’s room is as nice as I think it will be, it will be just the place for me.”
He walked in front of me, up and down countless flights of steps, until, some little way lower down the hill, he stopped outside a small cottage. Sure enough there were herrings, frying and spluttering on the fire, and Polly in a clean white apron, turning them with a fork. The kitchen was very low, and the rafters seemed to rest on my head as I entered, but the window and door were both wide open, and the whole place struck me as wonderfully fresh and clean. A low wooden bench stood by the fire, one or two plain chairs by the wall, and little John’s three-legged stool was placed close to his father’s armchair. A small shelf above the fireplace held the family’s books. I noticed a Bible, a hymn book, a Pilgrim’s Progress, and several other tattered books and that were obviously in constant use. On the walls discolored by the smoke of countless fires hung prints in wooden frames. On a carved old oak cupboard, which held the clothes of the family, were arranged various rare shells and stones, curious sea urchins and other treasures from the sea. In the center of the house and the pride of Polly’s heart, was a ship, carved and rigged by Duncan himself, and preserved carefully under a glass cover.
Polly gave me a hearty Yorkshire welcome, and we soon gathered round the small round table. Duncan, with little John on his knee, thanked God for the food. Polly poured out the tea, and we all enjoyed the meal.
The more I saw of these people, the more I liked them and felt I could trust them. When the meal was over, Polly took me upstairs to see the guest-room where her husband had offered me a bed. The low room had only enough space for a plain wooden bed and one chair. On the wall opposite the bed there were three or four gloomy pictures in dismal black frames, and a mirror on another wall. But the one window was wide open, and the pure sea air filled the little room. The coarse white coverings of the bed were spotless, and the whole place looked and felt both fresh and clean.
“You’ll pardon me, Sir,” said Duncan, “for asking you to look at such a poor place.”
“But I like it, Duncan,” I answered, “and I like your family and if you’ll have me as a lodger, I’d be glad to stay.”
We soon agreed upon the rent and everything being settled, Polly went to put little John to bed while I went with Duncan to see his boat.
It was an old boat, and it had been his father’s before him. It had weathered many storms, but it was the dream of Duncan’s life to buy a new one, and he and Polly had nearly saved up enough money for it.
“That’s why the missus and I are glad to get a lodger now and again,” he said. “It all goes toward the new boat, every penny of it. We mean to call her the Little John. He’s going in her the very first voyage she takes; he is, indeed, Sir, for he’ll be her captain one day, please God, little John will.”
It was a calm, beautiful evening; the sea was like a sheet of glass. Hardly a ripple was breaking on the shore. The sun was setting behind the cliff, and the fishing village would soon be in darkness. The fishermen were leaving their cottages and were making for the shore. Already some of the boats were launched, and the men were throwing in their nets and fishing tackle, and were pulling out to sea. I enjoyed watching my new friend making his preparations. His three mates brought out the nets, and he gave his orders with a tone of command. He was the owner and the captain of the Mary Anne, and the rest were accustomed to obeying him.
When all were on board, Duncan jumped in and gave the word to push off from shore. He nodded to me and called “good-night,” and when he was a little way from shore, I saw him stand up in the boat and wave his oilskin cap to someone above me on the cliff.
I looked up, and saw Polly standing on the rock overhanging the shore with little John in his white pajamas in her arms. He was waving his red cap to his father, and continued to wave until the boat was out of sight.