her fast forward. The others pulled gallantly and swung the boat
in - man, fish, and all.

"One, two, four - nine," said Tom Platt, counting with a practised
eye. "Forty-seven. Penn, you're it!" Dan let the after-tackle run,
and slid him out of the stern on to the deck amid a torrent of his
own fish.

"Hold on!" roared Uncle Salters, bobbing by the waist. "Hold on,
I'm a bit mixed in my caount."

He had no time to protest, but was hove inboard and treated like
"Pennsylvania."

"Forty-one," said Tom Platt. "Beat by a farmer, Salters. An' you
sech a sailor, too!"

"'Tweren't fair caount," said he, stumbling out of the pen; "an'
I'm stung up all to pieces."

His thick hands were puffy and mottled purply white.

"Some folks will find strawberry-bottom," said Dan, addressing the
newly risen moon, "ef they hev to dive fer it, seems to me."

"An' others," said Uncle Salters, "eats the fat o' the land in
sloth, an' mocks their own blood-kin."

"Seat ye! Seat ye!" a voice Harvey had not heard called from the
fo'c'sle. Disko Troop, Tom Platt, Long Jack, and Salters went