"You an' me we'll sluice that out when they're through. 'Send
we'll hev full pens to-night! I've seen her down ha'af a foot with
fish waitin' to clean, an' we stood to the tables till we was
splittin' ourselves instid o' them, we was so sleepy. Yes, they're
comin' in naow." Dan looked over the low bulwarks at half a dozen
dories rowing towards them over the shining, silky sea.

"I've never seen the sea from so low down," said Harvey. "It's
fine."

The low sun made the water all purple and pinkish, with golden
lights on the barrels of the long swells, and blue and green
mackerel shades in the hollows. Each schooner in sight seemed to
be pulling her dories towards her by invisible strings, and the
little black figures in the tiny boats pulled like clockwork toys.

"They've struck on good," said Dan, between his half-shut eyes.
"Manuel hain't room fer another fish. Low ez a lily-pad in still
water, ain't he?"

"Which is Manuel? I don't see how you can tell 'em 'way off, as
you do."

"Last boat to the south'ard. He f'und you last night," said Dan,
pointing. "Manuel rows Portugoosey; ye can't mistake him. East o'
him - he's a heap better'n he rows - is Pennsylvania. Loaded with
saleratus, by the looks of him. East o' him - see how pretty they
string out all along with the humpy shoulders, is Long Jack. He's
a Galway man inhabitin' South Boston, where they all live mostly,
an' mostly them Galway men are good in a boat. North, away yonder