(Excerpt): Manx Bradley was an admiraladmiral of the fleetthough it must be admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so exalted. With rough pilot coat and sou-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy, rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. Nevertheless Manx was a real admiralas real as Nelson, and much harder worked. His fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one fine autumn evening on the North Sea. The vessels cruised round each other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of touch. Nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admirals vessel, for it was literally the flagship, being distinguishable only by a small flag attached to its fore stay. The fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. A fine smart fishing breeze was blowing. The setting sun sparkled on the wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning.