One theorist loudly called for a massacre of sea-birds, especially shags and gannets.  Others (and these were the majority) demanded protection from steam trawlers, whom they accused of scraping the sea-bottom, to the wholesale sacrifice of immature fish—­sole and plaice, brill and turbot.

“Now look ‘ee here, my sons,” said Un’ Benny Rowett:  “if I was you, I’d cry to the Lord a little more an’ to County Council a little less.  What’s the full size ye reckon a school o’ pilchards, now—­one o the big uns?  Scores an’ scores o’ square miles, all movin’ in a mass, an’ solid a’most as sardines in a tin; and, as I’ve heard th’ Old Doctor used to tell, every female capable o’ spawnin’ up to two million. . . .  No; your mind can’t seize it.  But ye might be fitted to grasp that if th’ Almighty hadn’ ordained other fish an’ birds as well as us men to prey upon ’em, in five years’ time no boat’d be able to sail th’ Atlantic; in ten years ye could walk over from Polpier to Newfoundland stankin’ ’pon rotten pilchards all the way.  Don’t reckon yourselves wiser than Natur’, my billies. . . .  As for steam trawlin’, simmee, I han’t heard so much open grievin’ over it since Government started loans for motors.  Come to think—­hey?—­ there ben’t no such tearin’ difference between motors an’ steam—­not on principle.  And as for reggilations, I’ve a doo respect for County Council till it sets up to reggilate Providence, when I falls back on th’ Lord’s text to Noey that, boy an’ man, I’ve never known fail. While th’ earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest shall not cease. And again,” continued Un’ Benny Rowett, “Behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes and look on the fields, for they are white already to harvest.”

If pressed in argument he would entrench himself behind the wonderful plenty of john-doreys:  “Which,” he would say, “is the mysteriousest fish in the sea and the holiest.  Take a john-dorey or two, and the pilchards be never far behind.  ’Tis well beknown as the fish St Peter took when Our Lord told ‘en to cast a hook; an’ be shot if he didn’ come to hook with a piece o’ silver in his mouth!  You can see Peter’s thumb-mark upon him to this day:  and, if you ask me, he’s better eatin’ than a sole, let alone you can carve en with a spoon—­though improved if stuffed, with a shreddin’ o’ mint.  Iss, baked o’ course. . . .  Afore August is out—­mark my words—­the pilchards’ll be here.”

“But shall we be here to take ’em?”

It was a dark, good-looking, serious youth who put the question:  and all the men at the end of the quay turned to stare at him. (For this happened on the evening of Saturday, the 25th—­St James’s Day,—­when all the boats were laid up for the week-end.)

The men turned to young Seth Minards because, as a rule, he had a wonderful gift of silence.  He was known to be something of a scholar, and religious too:  but his religion did Dot declare itself outwardly, save perhaps in a constant gentleness of manner.  The essence of it lay in spiritual withdrawal; the man retiring into his own heart, so to speak, and finding there a Friend with whom to hold sweet and habitual counsel.  By consequence, young Seth Minards spoke rarely, but with more than a double weight.