tide to serve. About an equal number were below in the boats,
getting things ready.

There was nothing unusual about Matthey, save that, although it was a
warm evening in August, he wore a thick pea-jacket, and had turned
the collar up about his ears. Nor (if you know Cornish fishermen)
was there anything very unusual in what he did, albeit a stranger
might well have thought it frantic.

For some time he walked to and fro, threading his way in and out of
the groups of men, walking much faster than they--at the best they
were strolling--muttering the while with his head sunk low in his
jacket collar, turning sharply when he reached the edge of the quay,
or pausing a moment or two, and staring gloomily at the water.
The men watched him, yet not very curiously. They knew what was
coming.

Of a sudden he halted and began to preach. He preached of Redemption
from Sin, of the Blood of the Lamb, of the ineffable bliss of
Salvation. His voice rose in an agony on the gentle twilight: it
could be heard--entreating, invoking, persuading, wrestling--far
across the harbour. The men listened quite attentively until the
time came for getting aboard. Then they stole away by twos and
threes down the quay steps. Meanwhile, and all the while,
preparations on the boats had been going forward.

He was left alone at length. Even the children had lost interest in
him, and had run off to watch the boats as they crept out on the
tide. He ceased abruptly, came across to the bench where I sat
smoking my pipe, and dropped exhausted beside me. The fire had died