I had no intention of stopping over in Holland at all. There is nothing remarkable about this country except for Dutch soot, Dutch cheese and Dutch herrings.
   Being a sailor I was naturally interested in these latter. So I decided to stop at Rotterdam after all and make a study of the herring business.
   Well, they go for herrings in a big way there. They catch them, salt them, pickle them, fresh and even sell them live to be kept in an aquarium.
   Moreover, the Dutch must know a secret. How else can you explain that no other nation is capable of catching Dutch herrings? The Scots tried, brought up nets full of herrings, but at closer inspection they proved to be, one and all, Scottish herrings.
   The Norwegians tried too. They are first-class fishermen. They caught plenty of herrings, but they were all the Norwegian kind. And the Dutch unerringly come up with Dutch herrings. So they have a monopoly and they sell their herrings right and left - to South Africa and North America, you just name the country and they sell their herrings to it.
   As I studied the herring business, I made an important discovery which caused a change in the initial plan of my voyage. After long observation I established beyond question that every herring is a fish, but that not every fish by far is a herring.
   What does it mean?
   It means that there is no need to spend huge sums of money on putting herrings in barrels, loading them on ships and unloading them again in the port of destination.
   Since herrings are fishes, would it not be much easier to herd them together and drive them live wherever they are wanted?
   Being a fish, a herring cannot drown, for all fishes are able to swim, aren't they? On the other hand, a strange fish may attach itself to the herd, and not every fish is a herring, is it? So it would be easy to detect it, to drive it off, to scare it away, and even to destroy it, if needs be.
   And where, with their ancient method of carrying herrings, they needed a huge freighter with a big crew and complex mechanisms, the new system makes it possible for a small craft like my Rage to cope with the task.
   This was theory, of course, but a very tempting theory. So I decided to test it in practice. An occasion presented itself very soon. A batch of herrings were to be sent to Alexandria, in North Africa. They had already been caught and were to be salted, but I put a stop to it.
   On my suggestion, they were let out, driven together into a herd, and Lom and I took charge of them. Lom stood at the wheel, while I, whip in hand, ensconced myself on the bowsprit and whenever I saw a strange fish worming itself into my herd, I gave it a good flick on the nose.
   It worked splendidly, let me tell you. The herrings, far from drowning, swam along briskly, and it was all we could do to keep up with them. Strange fish kept away. But towards evening I began to nod.
   It's hard business, watching after a herd of herrings, and there's no time left for sleeping. One steers, the other minds the herd. One could stand it for a day or two, but ours was to be a long trip. Ahead lay the ocean and tropical latitudes. I was getting apprehensive. This way we'll bungle the undertaking, I thought.
   In the end I decided to take on another man - a sailor. And I had the opportunity too, we had just entered the English Channel. We were within a stone's throw of the French port of Calais, which is always full of sailors seeking employment. There you can hire a boatswain, a carpenter, or a first class helmsman. My mind made up, I approached the shore, hove to, called a pilot's launch and despatched Lom ashore to hire a man.
   That was a mistake, of course. The hiring of the crew is a responsible business. However painstaking, Lom was too young to be entrusted with it. I should have gone myself. On the other hand, the herding of herrings was a new undertaking and required my personal supervision as well. Suppose they scattered while I was gone.
   I would never make good the financial loss, to say nothing of the disgrace of it. And, most important, an excellent idea would have been compromised. You know how it is: if you fail the first time, there won't be any second. Be it as it may, I sent Lom to Calais, and made myself comfortable in a deck-chair. I read a newspaper and kept an eye on the herrings as well. They were grazing nicely, their scales flashing in the sun.
   Lom returned in the evening with the new sailor.
   The man looked all right. Not too young, but not old either. True, he was rather on the short side, but his eyes were lively and intelligent and he had a beard of an old-time pirate. Only pirates, if we are to believe the rumours, were mostly red-haired, and this one was raven-black. He could read and write, did not smoke, was neatly dressed and knew four languages - English, German, French and Russian. This was what decided Lom, for, if truth be told, he was fast forgetting what English he knew. The new sailor had a somewhat strange name Fooks, but what's in a name? Lom also whispered in my ear that the new sailor was reputed to have the nimblest hands in Calais.
   Well, that was good. I needed someone who could do various small jobs that always crop up on a ship, and the tackle of a sailing vessel needs nimble hands as well.
   In a word, I took him on. I wrote him down in the ship's crew list, explained what his duties would be and told Lom to show him his bunk. Then we set sail, swung around and went on our way, herding the herrings along.
   And it turned out we had taken an extra man just in time. Up till then we had been lucky with the wind, which was fair and steady. But now the wind turned and hit us dead in the face. At another time I would have most probably spared myself and the crew the effort and dropped anchor. But we had our herrings to consider.
   They cared nothing for the wind and swam ahead at full speed. And we could not afford to lag behind either. So we had to tack. I called all hands on deck, set Lom to mind the herrings, took up position at the wheel and, when we had gained some speed, commanded:
   "Ready about!"
   There was Fooks standing idly with his hands in his pockets and watching the sails with interest. Then I addressed him straight:
   "Fooks!" I shouted. "Take in the mainsail!"
   He jumped, gave me a perplexed glance and began to pull at the sheet of the sail.
   "Stop it!" I yelled.
   He left off and stared at me wonderingly.
   I could see Lom had hired a lubber. He did not know the first thing about sailing. As a rule I keep my temper well under control, but now I was really furious.
   "Why in the hell's name did you pass yourself for a sailor, Fooks?" I demanded.
   "But I am not a sailor at all," he replied. "I simply got into a fix and my friends advised a change of scenery..."
   "Wait a minute," I interrupted him. "Why are you reputed to have nimble hands then?"
   "Oh I have nimble hands all right," he replied. "They earn me my daily bread. But not the way you think. I am a cardsharp by profession."
   My jaw fell.
   Judge for yourself-what was I to do with the likes of him?
   To get rid of him I had to return to Calais and thus lose another day. The wind was building up. If a storm broke out, it could be goodbye to our herrings. On the other hand, to carry a cardsharp on board like so much ballast was too silly. He did not understand a word of command, and did not know the name of a single rope. I was at a loss.
   But then a brilliant idea occurred to me. I had a deck of cards on board because I like playing patience at leisure. I tied a card to each rope and commanded:
   "Stand by for a turn! Untie the three of spades, haul the knave of hearts, coil the ten of diamonds..."