FISHERMEN'S OWN BOOK. 203 



eight feet from the rail to the hooks, when we can fork them in just as fast 

 as we can move our hands and arms. "Keep your lines clear!" is now the 

 word, as the doomed fish flip faster and faster into the barrels. Every face 

 wears an expression of anxious determination. Everybody moves as though 

 he had a full set of very elastic springs within him ; every heart beats loud 

 with excitement, and every hand hauls in fish and throws out hooks with a 

 method ; cool precision, a kind of slow haste, which unites the greatest 

 speed with the utmost security against foul lines. 



The rain momentarily increases. We hear jibs rattling down ; and glanc- 

 ing up hastily I am surprised to find our vessel surrounded on all sides by 

 the fleet, which has already become aware that we have fish alongside. 



Meantime the wind rises, the sea struggles against the rain, which is en- 

 deavoring with its steady patter to quiet the turmoil of old ocean. We are 

 already on our third barrel of fish, each, and still they come as fast as ever, 

 and the business (sport it ceased to be some time ago) continues with undi- 

 minished vigor. Streams of perspiration course down our faces. Jackets, 

 caps, and even our shirts are thrown off to give greater freedom to limbs 

 that are worked to their utmost. 



"Hello! where are the fish?" calls out somebody; and sure enough, all 

 at once the whole business comes to a standstill — the fish have apparently 

 "shut up shop" and gone home, for not the faintest nibble does one fisher- 

 man get. The mackerel, which a moment ago were fairly rushing on board, 

 have in that moment disappeared so completely that not a sign of one is left. 

 The vessel next under our lee holds them a little longer than we, but they 

 finally also disappear from her side. And so on all around us. 



And now we have time to look around us ; to compare notes on each 

 other's success ; to straighten our backbones, nearly broken and aching hor- 

 ribly with constantly reaching over ; to examine our fingers, cut to pieces 

 and grown as sensationless as a piece of salt junk, with the perpetual drag- 

 ging of small lines across them. 



