It will be remembered that two of the conditions my father imposed upon me, were that I should not land on any other island nor speak to anyone under any pretence whatever, and these rules I rigorously carried out.  Many a time passing boatmen hailed me, but a wave of the hand and my finger pointed to my output tongue was the only answer they received, consequently I was called the “Dumb Man of Jethou,” or the “Yellow Boy,” and as such and by no other name many of the fishermen knew me.  Those who did not know my history pitied me as a kind of voiceless castaway or semi-sane being.

My long trips were sometimes undertaken on calm moonlight nights:  one, I remember, was to St. Sampson’s Harbour, Guernsey.  I started about three a.m., and reached the harbour before four o’clock, so that I had a good look around the little haven, and at the shipping before anyone was astir.  I moored to the cable of a big brigantine which was lying alongside the wharf ready for her cargo of granite for London.  Curb stones, blocks for paving, and broken metal for macadam roads are all shipped here to the amount of several thousand tons weekly, so that the granite quarrying and dressing give occupation to about 2,000 men, women, and children.  Granite working and fruit growing are the two great industries of the island, which seems to me to be composed principally of two extremely different materials—­granite and glass; at any rate it is not the place for stone throwing.

As I swung on the cable of the big ship, I made myself a cup of coffee; for I always carried a small lamp stove with me, so that I could cook the fish I caught fresh from the sea, or make myself a cup of tea or coffee to wash my meal down with.

I have since found, that within the memory of persons still alive, Guernsey was nearly cut off from Vale Parish by an arm of the sea, which flowed over the salt marshes at high tide, so that all communication was cut off between the two parts of the island except by one little bridge and the ferry boat.  The bridge was about 380 yards west of St. Sampson’s Church; but at the present day pleasant meadows, houses, and roads take the place of the broad stream of salt water and marshes, which formerly made Guernsey and Vale separate islands twice a day, at the time of high tide.

Just before five o’clock when heads began to peep over bulwarks, and men to appear on the quay, passing to their work, I thought it time to be off, as my strange craft would be sure to attract attention, which I did not court, so I packed up and made snug for sailing.  I was only just in time, for a bearded face looked over the bulwarks of the brigantine, and hailed me with a “Good morning, mate!” but I only pointed to my mouth and ears as I unmoored.  When I looked up again as I pushed off there were half a dozen merry faces peering over the side at me, and I could see they were surprised at the “Yellow Boy” and her dumb skipper.  As I sculled out of the harbour I could hear their remarks and laughter, despite my deaf-mutism, and would gladly have had a chat with them if it had not been for my “rules,” for these were the first human voices I had heard close by me for nearly four months.