I hurried back to my lodging, and found Polly preparing my breakfast, whilst little John looked on.  He was sitting in his nightgown, curled up in his father’s armchair.  ‘I’m daddy,’ he called out to me as I came in.

There was a little round table laid ready for me, and covered with a spotlessly clean cloth, and on it was a small black teapot, and a white and gold cup and saucer, upon which I saw the golden announcement, ’A present from Whitby,’ whilst my plate was adorned with a remarkable picture of Whitby Abbey in a thunderstorm.

There were herrings, of course, and Polly had made some hot cakes, the like of which are never seen outside Yorkshire.  These were ready buttered, and were lying wrapped in a clean cloth in front of the fire.  Polly made the tea as soon as I entered, and then retired with little John in her arms into the bedroom, whilst I sat down with a good appetite to my breakfast.

I had not quite finished my meal when I heard a great shout from the shore.  Women and children, lads and lasses, ran past the open door, crying, ‘The boats! the boats!’ Polly came flying into the kitchen, caught up little John’s red cap, thrust it on his head, and ran down the steps.  I left my breakfast unfinished, and followed them.

It was a pretty sight.  The fishing-boats were just nearing shore, and almost every one in the place had turned out to meet them.

Wives, children, and visitors were gathered on the small landing place; most had dishes or plates in their hands, for the herrings could be bought straight from the boats.  The family from York were there, and they greeted me as an old friend.

When the little village had been abundantly supplied with fish, the rest of the herrings were packed up and sent off by train to be sold elsewhere.  It was a pretty animated scene, and I wished I had brought my sketchbook with me.  I thought the arrival of the fishing boats would make a splendid subject for a picture.

Duncan was too busy even to see me till the fish were all landed, counted, and disposed of, but he had time for a word with little John, and as I was finishing my breakfast he came in with the child perched on his shoulder.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said; ’and how do you like our bay this morning?’

My answer fully satisfied him, and whilst he sat down to his morning meal I went out to begin my work.  It was a lovely day, and I thoroughly enjoyed the prospect before me.  I found a shady place just under the wall of a house, where my picture would be in sunlight and I and my easel in shadow.  I liked the spot I had chosen even better than I had done before breakfast, and I was soon hard at work.

I had sketched in my picture, and was beginning to paint, when I became conscious of the sound of voices just over my head, and I soon became equally conscious that they were talking about me.

‘It’s just like it,’ said one voice.  ’Look—­do look.  There’s Betty Green’s cottage, and Minnie the cat, and the seat, and the old boat.’