On a certain breezy morning in October--not many years ago--a wilderness of foam rioted wildly over those dangerous sands which lie off the port of Yarmouth, where the _Evening Star_, fishing-smack, was getting ready for sea. In one of the narrow lanes or "Rows" peculiar to that town, the skipper of the smack stood at his own door, grumbling. He was a broad burly man, a little past the prime of life, but prematurely aged by hard work and hard living.…
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