"They ought to follow us," replied the second engineer. "When I went
down to take over this morning, Mac was singing Scotch songs. What more
could we do below?"

"It's a grand life," nodded his superior's polished bald head. "Aye,
there's guid reason for singing. Sing to yon codfish, y'ken."

The skipper looked at the engineer in doubtful innocence. "Well, I wish
singing would do it," he said gravely. "I don't know. How do you
account for some fellows getting most of the luck? Their ships are the
same, and they don't know any more."

Mac shook his head. "The owners think they do. There's their big
catches, y'ken. Ye'll no convince owners that the sea bottom isna' wet
and onsairten."

The rosy face of the skipper became darker, and there was a spark in his
eyes. This was unfair. "But dammit, man, you don't mean to say the
owners are right? Do these chaps know any more? Look at old Rumface,
old Billy Higgs. Got enough women to make him hate going into any port.
Can't be happy ashore unless he's too drunk to know one woman from
another. What does he do? Can't go to sea without taking his trawler
right over all the fish there is. Is that his sense? Ain't God good to
him? Shows him the fish every time."

The engineer stood up, bending his head beneath a beam, crooking an elbow
to consider one hairy arm. "Ah weel, I wouldna call it God. Ye canna
tell. Man Billy has his last trip to make. Likely he'll catch fish
that'd frighten Hull. Aye."