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Updated: June 2, 2025
Trevarrow hauled on the rope, lifted the basket out of the sea, and a cataract of living silver was shot into the boat, accompanied by a mighty cheer. Basketful after basketful followed, until the men stood leg-deep in fish.
David Trevarrow assisted him, and in less than four minutes the whole net was in the sea. One of the other boats, meanwhile, had fastened another net to the first, and, rowing in an opposite direction from it, progressed in a circular course, dropping its net as it went, until the two met and thus an immense shoal of pilchards were enclosed.
This winze was almost completed, but one of the men employed at it had suddenly become unwell that day, and no other had been appointed to the work. As it was a matter of great importance to have fresh air, now that they had resolved to remain day and night in the mine for some time, Maggot and Trevarrow determined to complete the work, believing that one or two shots would do it.
Maggot roared and yelled his orders like a Stentor. Even mild David Trevarrow lost self-command, and shouted vociferously. "Hand the basket!" cried Maggot. A large basket, with a rope attached to one handle, was produced. Maggot seized the other handle, and thrust it down among the wriggling pilchards.
Yes, the work was very hard, probably the hardest that human muscles are ever called on to perform in this toiling world; but again we say that David Trevarrow did not think so, for he had been born to the work and bred to it, and was blissfully ignorant of work of a lighter kind, so that, although his brows frowned at the obstinate rock, his compressed lips smiled, for his thoughts were pleasant and far away.
He thought better of it, however, and relapsed into goodness just as the door opened, and David Trevarrow entered. "Oh, uncle David," cried little Grace, jumping up and running towards him, "do help me nuss baby." "What's the matter with the cheeld bad, eh? Fetch un to me and I'll cure him."
Taste alone will avail, so that our readers must either go to Cornwall to drink it, or for ever remain unsatisfied. To work went Maggot and Trevarrow and Zackey on their new pitch next day like true Britons. Indeed, we question whether true Britons of the ancient time ever did go to work with half the energy or perseverance of the men of the present day.
"James Penrose's late pitch," read the manager, giving the details of it in terms somewhat similar to those already sett, and stating that the required "pare," or force to be put on it, was two men and a boy. "Put me down for it," said Maggot. "Have you got your pare?" asked Mr Cornish. "Iss, sur." "Their names?" "David Trevarrow and my son Zackey."
"Iss," assented David Trevarrow, also puffing his pipe, at the clouds issuing from which baby gazed with endless amazement and admiration; "it's worth much, but it isn't worth your life." "Sure, I ain't goin' to give my life for't," replied Maggot. "But you're goin' to risk it," said David, "an' you shouldn't, for you've a wife an' child'n to provide for.
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