He came down to the quay soon after tea-time, about half an hour
before the luggers were due to put out. Some twenty-five or thirty
men were already gathered, dandering to and fro with hands in
pockets, or seated on the bench under the sea wall, waiting for the
tide to serve. About an equal number were below in the boats,
getting things ready.
There was nothing unusual about Matthey, save that, although it was a
warm evening in August, he wore a thick pea-jacket, and had turned
the collar up about his ears. Nor (if you know Cornish fishermen)
was there anything very unusual in what he did, albeit a stranger
might well have thought it frantic.
For some time he walked to and fro, threading his way in and out of
the groups of men, walking much faster than they--at the best they
were strolling--muttering the while with his head sunk low in his
jacket collar, turning sharply when he reached the edge of the quay,
or pausing a moment or two, and staring gloomily at the water.
The men watched him, yet not very curiously. They knew what was
coming.
Of a sudden he halted and began to preach. He preached of Redemption
from Sin, of the Blood of the Lamb, of the ineffable bliss of
Salvation.
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