"That's no way o' gettin' into a boat," said Dan. "Ef there was
any sea you'd go to the bottom, sure. You got to learn to meet
her."

Dan fitted the thole-pins, took the forward thwart, and watched
Harvey's work. The boy had rowed, in a ladylike fashion, on the
Adirondack ponds; but there is a difference between squeaking pins
and well-balanced rowlocks - light sculls and stubby, eight-foot
sea-oars. They stuck in the gentle swell, and Harvey grunted.

"Short! Row short!" said Dan. "Ef you cramp your oar in any kind
o' sea you're liable to turn her over. Ain't she a daisy? Mine,
too."

The little dory was specklessly clean. In her bows lay a tiny
anchor, two jugs of water, and some seventy fathoms of thin, brown
dory-roding. A tin dinner-horn rested in cleats just under
Harvey's right hand, beside an ugly-looking maul, a short gaff,
and a shorter wooden stick. A couple of lines, with very heavy
leads and double cod-hooks, all neatly coiled on square reels,
were stuck in their place by the gunwale.

"Where's the sail and mast?" said Harvey, for his hands were
beginning to blister.

Dan chuckled. "Ye don't sail fishin'-dories much. Ye pull; but ye
needn't pull so hard. Don't you wish you owned her?"

"Well, I guess my father might give me one or two if I asked 'em,"