CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 

A DAY OF CALM FOLLOWED BY A NIGHT OF STORM. 

A fine-toned manly voice was heard, as the boat approached the mission smack, singing one of the popular hymns which are now pretty well-known throughout the fishing fleets. 

"No mistaking that voice," said David Bright turning an amused look on Billy; "Singin' Peter won't knock off till he's under the sod or under the sea." 

"Then he'll never knock off at all," returned Billy, "for Luke there has bin tellin' me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that will never end when we git into the next world." 

"That depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down." 

"Well, I s'pose it does. But tell me, daddy, ain't the hand very bad? I'm so awful sorry, you know." 

"It might ha' bin worse, Billy, but don't you take on so, my boy. We'll be all right an' ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow, on board the mission-ship." 

The hand was not however, so easily fixed up as David Bright seemed to expect. 

"Come down an' let's have a look at it, David," said the skipper, when the vessel's deck was gained. 

By that time Singing Peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of the _Evening Star_. 

"It's a bad cut," said Peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man's palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. "We'll have to try a little o' the surgeon's business here. You can take a stitch in human flesh I daresay, skipper? If you can't, I'll try." 
Did Peter stop?
 he had changed it