A little break in the monotony came at last, and Mr. Ferrier and Mr. T. Lennard had an experience which neither will forget on this side of the grave.  Contrary to the fashion of mere novelists, who are not dreamers and who consequently cannot see the end of things, I tell you that both men were kept alive, but they had something to endure.

The day had been fairly pleasant considering the time of year, and our friends were kept busy in running from vessel to vessel, looking after men with slight ailments.  There was no snow, but some heavy banks hung in the sky away to the eastward.  When the sun sank, the west was almost clear, and Tom and Lewis were electrified by the most extraordinary sunset that either had ever seen.  The variety of colour was not great; all the open spaces of the sky were pallid green, and all the wisps of cloud were leprous blue:  it was the intensity of the hues that made the sight so overpowering, for the spaces of green shone with a clear glitter exactly like the quality of colours which you see on Crookes’s tubes when a powerful electric current is passed through.

“That’s very artistic, and everything else of the sort; it’s ah-h better than any painting I ever saw, but there’s something about it that reminds me of snakes and things of that kind.  Snakes!  If you saw a forked tongue come out of that blue you wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You’re getting to be quite an impressionist, Tom.  The sky is horrible.  I see all our vessels are getting their boats in; we’d better follow suit.  How’s the glass, skipper?” “Never saw anything like it, sir.  This night isn’t over yet, and I reckon what’s coming is coming from the nor’-east.  We’re going to reef down.  I haven’t seen anything like this since 1866, and I remember we had just such another evening.”

As usual, the gulls were troubled in their minds, and wailed piercingly, for they seem to be mercurial in temperament, and no better weather prophets can be seen.

The two ambulance-service men went below, declining to show any misgivings, and they had a good, desultory chat before anything happened to call them on deck.  They talked of the poor bruised fellows whom they had seen; then of home; then of the splendid future when men would be kinder, and no fisherman with festering wounds would ever be permitted to die like a dog in a stinking kennel.  Pleasant, honest talk it was, for the talkers were pleasant and honest.  No bad man can talk well.  Our two gentlemen had learned a long lesson of unselfishness, and each of them seemed to become gentler and more worthy in proportion as he gave up more and more of his comfort and his labour to serve others.

At last Ferrier said, “Well, Tom, we had a heavy turn in the autumn.  If we go this time we’ll go together, and I’ve often wondered what that could be like.  What do men say when they meet the last together?  Whew-w!  How I hate death.  The monster!  The beastly cold privation.  To leave even a North Sea smack must be bitter.”