DREDGING. 223 



Now we have made our offing, and can look well into 

 Teignmouth Harbour, the bluff point of the Ness some 

 four miles distant, scarcely definable now against the 

 land. We pull down sails, set her head for the Ore- 

 stone Eock, and drift with the tide. The dredge is 

 hove overboard, paying out some forty fathoms of line, 

 for we have about twelve or fourteen fathoms' water 

 here, with a nice rough, rubbly bottom, over which, as 

 we hold the line in hand, we feel the iron lip of the 

 dredge grate and rumble, without catches or jumps. 

 Now and then, for a brief space, it goes smoothly, and 

 the hand feels nothing ; that is when a patch of sand 

 is crossed, or a bed of zostera, or close-growing sea- 

 weeds, each a good variation for yielding. 



" What d'ye say, Tom ? Shall we try it ?" 



" Ay, ay, sir !" 



Up comes the wet line under Tom's strong mus- 

 cular pulling, and as it leaves his hands, we coil it snug 

 in the bows of the boat. Dimly appears the dredge 

 some yards below the surface, and now it comes to light, 

 and is fairly lifted aboard. " 'Tis mortal heavy !" Well 

 it may be, for here is a pretty cargo of huge, rough 

 stones, great oyster-shells, and I know not what. Bright 

 scarlets and crimsons and yellows I discern, and many 

 a twinkling movement among the chaos raises our ex- 

 pectations of something good. We pick out the most 



