of colour.  Even out of the mouths of his boots you may see the ends of red knitted leggings protruding.  His yellow or black sou’-wester roofing the back of his neck, he comes down to harbour, as splendid as a figure at a fair.  And always, when he arrives, he is smoking a pipe.  As one watches him, one wonders if anybody except a fisherman, as he looks out over the harbour, knows how to smoke.  He has made tobacco part of himself, like breathing.

If the tide is already full the fishermen are taken off in small rowing-boats, most of them standing, and the place is busy with a criss-cross of travelling crews till the fishing-boats are all manned.  If the water is not yet deep, however, most of the men walk to their boats, lumbering through the waves, and occasionally jumping like a wading girl as a larger wave threatens the tops of their boots.  Many of them carry their supper in a basket or a handkerchief.  The first of the boats begins to move out of its stall.  It is tugged into the clear water, and the fishermen put out long oars and row it laboriously to the mouth of the harbour and the wind.  It is followed by a motor-boat, and another, and another.  There are forty putting up their sails like one.  The harbour moves.  One has a sense as of things liberated.  It is as though a flock of birds were being loosed into the air—­as though pigeon after pigeon were being set free out of a basket for home.  Lug-sail after lugsail, brown as the underside of a mushroom, hurries out among the waves.  A green little tub of a steamboat follows with insolent smoke.  The motor-boats hasten out like scenting dogs.  Every sort of craft—­motor-boat, gig, lugger and steamboat—­makes for sea, higgledy-piggledy in a long line, an irregular procession of black and blue and green and white and brown.  Here, as in the men’s clothes, the paint-pots have been spilled.

There is nothing more sociable than a fishing-fleet.  The boats overtake each other, like horses in a race.  They gallop in rivalry.  But for the most part they keep together, and move like a travelling town over the sea.  As likely as not they will have to come back out of the storm into the shelter of the bay, and they will ride there till nightfall, when every boat becomes a lamp and every sail a shadow.  In the darkness they hang like a constellation on the oily water.  They become a company of dancing stars.  Every now and then a boat moves off on a quest of its own.  It is as though the firmament were shaken.  One hears the kick-kick-kick of the motor, and a star has become a will-o’-the-wisp.  These lights can no more keep still than a playground of children.  They always make a pattern on the water, but they never make the same pattern.  Sometimes they lengthen themselves against the sandy shore on the far side of the bay into a golden river.  Sometimes they huddle together into a little procession of monks carrying tapers....