NO BOXES 171 



'What's say?' asked Richard. 'Shall us have 

 a go for the sport o'lt, like? Might wash out 

 the net.' 



We shot seine from the westward end of the 

 beach for about five hundred good-sized fish 

 and two or three thousand small ones, all of 

 which we brought back together In the punt, 

 where they lay In a glittering heap, the under 

 ones half squashed, the top ones flapping their 

 tails, gasping with wide-open gills, and tattooing 

 violently as mackerel will do before they die; 

 their living brightness fading all the while. We 

 sent for the buyers. They held aloof. We 

 shouted for boxes: 'These here'd sell up- 

 country; might get summut for 'em.' Boxes 

 were not to be had; they were all gone away 

 full. Till long after dark one or other of us 

 was out by the boat, trying to sell our catch in 

 three-ha'p'orths and three-pennyworths — three- 

 pence a dozen the small fish, and sixpence, or what 

 we could get, for the large. 



Next morning — the day on which the mackerel 

 were thickest and closest inshore — we threw back 

 the remainder of our haul. It was no use leaving 

 it in the boat to rot. As far along as eye could 

 see the water was all of a splash with brit jumping 



