The Tide begins to turn, and Death steps in.  
Let us now, good reader, outstrip the Sunbeam, and, proceeding to the fleet in advance of her, pay a night visit to one or two of the smacks. We are imaginative creatures, you see, and the powers of imagination are, as you know, almost illimitable. Even now, in fact, we have you hovering over the dark sea, which, however, like the air above it, is absolutely calm, so that the numerous lanterns of the fishing-vessels around are flickering far down into the deep, like gleams of perpendicular lightning.
 
It is Saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is the Lively Poll. Let us descend into her cabin.
 
A wonderful change has come over the vessel’s crew since the advent of the mission smack. Before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling, diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane.
 
On the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet. They could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. But it was evident that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around them. Like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary.
 
David Duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of Dickens, was growing purple in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. Stephen Lockley, who had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his elbows resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown on his face. Hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering deep into his awakening soul. Bob Lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the binnacle light on deck, had secured an American magazine, the humorous style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into hearty ripples of laughter.
 
But they were not equally persevering, for Joe Stubley, to whom reading was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his favourite game of “checkers.” The mate, Peter Jay, was slowly pacing the deck in profound meditation. His soul had been deeply stirred by some of the words which had fallen from the lips of John Binning, and perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely in his mind.
 
“Well done, little marchioness!” exclaimed David Duffy, with eyes riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, “you’re a trump!”
 
“Shush!” exclaimed Lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up his hand as if to check interruption. “There’s somethin’ in this, although I can’t quite see it yet.”
 
A roar of laughter on deck announced that Bob Lumsden had found something quite to his taste. “First-rate—ha! ha! I wonder if it’s all true.”
 
“Hold your noise there,” cried Hawkson; “who d’ee think can learn off a hymn wi’ you shoutin’ like a bo’sun’s mate an’ Duffy snortin’ like a grampus?”
 
“Ah, just so,” chimed in Stubley, looking up from his board. “Why don’t you let it out, David? You’ll bu’st the b’iler if you don’t open a bigger safety-valve than your nose.”
 
“Smack on the weather beam, that looks like the Gospel ship, sir,” said the mate, looking down the hatchway.
 
The skipper closed his book at once and went on deck, but the night was so dark, and the smack in question so far off, that they were unable to make her out among the numerous lights of the fleet.
 
In another part of that fleet, not far distant, floated the Cormorant. Here too, as in many other smacks, the effects of the Sunbeam’s beneficent influence had begun to tell. Groggy Fox’s crew was noted as one of the most quarrelsome and dissipated in the fleet. On this particular Saturday night, however, all was quiet, for most of the men were busy with books, pamphlets, and tracts. One who had, as his mate said, come by a broken head, was slumbering in his berth, scientifically bandaged and convalescent, and Groggy himself, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, was deep in a book which he pronounced to be “one o’ the wery best wollums he had ever come across in the whole course of his life,” leaving it to be inferred, perhaps, that he had come across a very large number of volumes in his day.
 
While he was thus engaged one of the men whispered in his ear, “A coper alongside, sir.”
 
The skipper shut the “wery best wollum” at once, and ordered out the boat.
 
“Put a cask o’ oysters in her,” he said.
 
Usually his men were eager to go with their skipper, but on this night some of them were so interested in the books they were reading that they preferred to remain on board. Others went, and, with their skipper, got themselves “fuddled” on the proceeds of the owner’s oysters. If oysters had not been handy, fish or something else would have been used instead, for Skipper Fox was not particular—he was still clinging to “the poor old stranded wreck.”
 
It was dawn when, according to their appropriate phrase, they “tumbled” over the side of the coper into their boat. As they bade the Dutchman good night they observed that he was looking “black as thunder” at the horizon.
 
“W–wat’s wrong, ol’ b–boy?” asked Groggy.
 
The Dutchman pointed to the horizon. “No use for me to shtop here, mit dat alongside!” he replied.
 
The fishermen turned their drunken eyes in the direction indicated, and, after blinking a few seconds, clearly made out the large blue flag, with its letters MDSF, fluttering in the light breeze that had risen with the sun.
 
With curses both loud and deep the Dutchman trimmed his sails, and slowly but decidedly vanished from the scene. Thus the tide began to turn on the North Sea!
 
The light breeze went down as the day advanced, and soon the mission vessel found herself surrounded by smacks, with an ever-increasing tail of boats at her stern, and an ever-multiplying congregation on her deck. It was a busy and a lively scene, for while they were assembling, Fred Martin took advantage o............