"Does your father just let them say how many they've caught
without checking them?" said Harvey.

"Why, yes. Where's the sense of a man lyin' fer a few old cod?"

"Was a man once lied for his catch," Manuel put in. "Lied every
day. Fife, ten, twenty-fife more fish than come he say there was."

"Where was that?" said Dan. "None o' aour folk."

"Frenchman of Anguille."

"Ah! Them West Shore Frenchmen don't caount, anyway. Stands to
reason they can't caount. Ef you run acrost any of their soft
hooks, Harvey, you'll know why," said Dan, with an awful contempt.

"Always more and never less,
Every time we come to dress,"

Long Jack roared down the hatch, and the "second ha'af" scrambled
up at once.

The shadow of the masts and rigging, with the never-furled riding-
sail, rolled to and fro on the heaving deck in the moonlight; and
the pile of fish by the stern shone like a dump of fluid silver.
In the hold there were tramplings and rumblings where Disko Troop
and Tom Platt moved among the salt-bins. Dan passed Harvey a
pitchfork, and led him to the inboard end of the rough table,
where Uncle Salters was drumming impatiently with a knife-haft. A
tub of salt water lay at his feet.