He passed the last house of the village, and could see the fishing-boats, dim and naked-looking, riding at their anchors in the bay.

Out beyond them, grim and terrible in the twilight, lay the hulk where the ice for fish-packing was stored.

The thick stump of her one remaining mast made a blacker bar against the black sky.

The pier was deserted, but he could see the bulky stacks of fish-boxes piled on it, and hear the water lapping against it.

Along its utmost edge lay a belt of gray white, where the waves broke as they surged round it.