darkness in that direction trebly deep.

Benjamin Pump was invariably the coxswain and net caster of Richard’s
boat, unless the sheriff saw fit to preside in person: and, on the
present occasion, Billy Kirby, and a youth of about half his strength,
were assigned to the oars. The remainder of the assistants were
stationed at the drag-ropes. The arrangements were speedily made, and
Richard gave the signal to “shove off.”

Elizabeth watched the motion of the batteau as it pulled from the
shore, letting loose its rope as it went, but it soon disappeared in
the darkness, when the ear was her only guide to its evolutions.
There was great affectation of stillness during all these manoeuvers,
in order, as Richard assured them, “not to frighten the bass, who were
running into the shoal waters, and who would approach the light if not
disturbed by the sounds from the fishermen.”

The hoarse voice of Benjamin was alone heard issuing out of the gloom,
as he uttered, in authoritative tones, “Pull larboard oar,” “Pull
starboard,” “ Give way together, boys,” and such other indicative
mandates as were necessary for the right disposition of his seine. A
long time was passed in this necessary part of the process, for
Benjamin prided himself greatly on his skill in throwing the net, and,
in fact, most of the success of the sport depended on its being done
with judgment. At length a loud splash in the water, as he threw away
the “staff,” or “stretcher,” with a hoarse call from the steward of
“Clear,” announced that the boat was returning; when Richard seized a
brand from the fire, and ran to a point as far above the centre of the
fishing-ground, as the one from which the batteau had started was
below it.