"Ouch!" he cried, for his fingers throbbed as though he had
grasped many nettles.

"Naow ye know what strawberry-bottom means. Nothin' 'cep' fish
should be teched with the naked fingers, dad says. Slat 'em off
ag'in' the gunnel, an' bait up, Harve. Lookin' won't help any.
It's all in the wages."

Harvey smiled at the thought of his ten and a half dollars a
month, and wondered what his mother would say if she could see him
hanging over the edge of a fishing-dory in mid-ocean. She suffered
agonies whenever he went out on Saranac Lake; and, by the way,
Harvey remembered distinctly that he used to laugh at her
anxieties. Suddenly the line flashed through his hand, stinging
even through the "flippers," the woolen circlets supposed to
protect it.

"He's a logy. Give him room accordin' to his strength," cried Dan.
"I'll help ye."

"No, you won't," Harvey snapped, as he hung on to the line. "It's
my first fish. Is - is it a whale?"

"Halibut, mebbe." Dan peered down into the water alongside, and
flourished the big "muckle," ready for all chances. Something
white and oval flickered and fluttered through the green. "I'll
lay my wage an' share he's over a hundred. Are you so everlastin'
anxious to land him alone?" Harvey's knuckles were raw and
bleeding where they had been banged against the gunwale; his face