of darkness.

"'Twas beautiful sunshiny weather, too, as I mind," he resumed. "One
o' those calm spells that happen, as often as not, just about
Christmas. I remember drawin' your attention to it, sir, one
Christmas when I passed you the compliments of the season; and you
put it down to kingfishers, which I thought strange at the time."

"Kingfishers?" echoed I, mystified for the moment. "Oh, yes"--as
light broke on me--"Halcyon days, of course!"

"That's right," Pilot Matthey nodded. "That's what you called 'em.
. . . It took us a whole day to work past the tides of the Start.
Then, about sunset, a light draught off the land helped us to Bolt
Tail, and after that we mostly drifted all night, with here and there
a cat's-paw, down across Bigbury Bay. By five in the morning we were
inside the Eddystone, with Plymouth Sound open, and by twelve noon we
was just in the very same place. It was Christmas Eve, sir.

"I looked at Daniel's face, and then a notion struck me. It was
foolish I hadn't thought of it before.

"'See here, boys,' I says. (There was three. My second son, Sam,
Daniel, and Daniel's brother, Dick, a youngster of sixteen or so.)
'Get out the boat,' I says,' and we'll tow her into Plymouth.
If you're smart we may pluck her into Cattewater in time for Daniel
to catch a train home. Sam can go home, too, if he has a mind, and
the youngster can stay and help me look after things. I've seen a
many Christmasses,' said I, 'and I'd as lief spend this one at
Plymouth as anywhere else. You can give 'em all my love, and turn up