"If you had been out in that storm last March, you would have had as much excitement as you liked.

For twelve hours we expected to go down every minute, and we were half our time bailing for our lives." An approving murmur broke from the others, who were all, with the exception of the one addressed as Jim Walsham, of the fisher class.

His clothing differed but little from that of the rest.

His dark blue pilot trousers were old and sea stained, his hands and face were dyed brown with exposure to the sun and the salt water; but there was something, in his manner and tone of voice, which showed that a distinction existed.
James Walsham was, indeed, the son of the late doctor of the village, who had died two years previously.

Dr.Walsham had been clever in his profession, but circumstances were against him.