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Daft Bess
BY
KATE BURNLEY BELT
Up and down the little pier they paced in quarter-deck fashion, each
with his hands tucked deep down in the pockets of his sea-blanket coat,
and his oilskin cap pulled well over his ears.
They were very silent in their walk, these three old men, who had
watched the breakers come and go at Trewithen for over sixty years, and
handled the ropes when danger threatened. Trewithen Cove had sheltered
many a storm-driven ship within their memories, and there were
grave-mounds in the churchyard on the cliff still unclaimed and unknown
that had been built up by their hands.
Up and down, to and fro they went in the face of the flying spray, in
spite of the deepening mist that was creeping up over the darkening sea.
Benjamin Blake--once the handiest craftsman in the cove--was the first
to break the silence.
"'Tis a sa-ad night at sea, mates!" he shouted, and the roar of the
waves nearly drowned the sound of his voice.
"Iss, tu be zure, Benjamin Blake!" shouted Tom Pemberthy in answer, "an'
'twill be a ba-ad job fer more'n wan boat, I reckin, 'gainst marnin'!"
Then Joe Clatworthy, whose opinions were valued highly in the settlement
of all village disputes, so that he had earned for himself the nickname
of "Clacking Joe," stood still as they once more turned their backs on
the threatening sea, and said his say.
"A tell ee wot 'twill be, mates," he said solemnly and slowly.
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