"Hi! Pitch 'em bunchy," shouted Dan. "Don't scatter! Uncle Salters
is the best splitter in the fleet. Watch him mind his book!"

Indeed, it looked a little as though the round uncle were cutting
magazine pages against time. Manuel's body, cramped over from the
hips, stayed like a statue; but his long arms grabbed the fish
without ceasing. Little Penn toiled valiantly, but it was easy to
see he was weak. Once or twice Manuel found time to help him
without breaking the chain of supplies, and once Manuel howled
because he had caught his finger in a Frenchman's hook. These
hooks are made of soft metal, to be rebent after use; but the cod
very often get away with them and are hooked again elsewhere; and
that is one of the many reasons why the Gloucester boats despise
the Frenchmen.

Down below, the rasping sound of rough salt rubbed on rough flesh
sounded like the whirring of a grindstone - a steady undertune to
the "click-nick" of the knives in the pen; the wrench and schloop
of torn heads, dropped liver, and flying offal; the "caraaah" of
Uncle Salters's knife scooping away backbones; and the flap of
wet, opened bodies falling into the tub.

At the end of an hour Harvey would have given the world to rest;
for fresh, wet cod weigh more than you would think, and his back
ached with the steady pitching. But he felt for the first time in
his life that he was one of a working gang of men, took pride in
the thought, and held on sullenly.

"Knife oh!" shouted Uncle Salters, at last. Penn doubled up,
gasping among the fish, Manuel bowed back and forth to supple