THE COD-FISHERY 



sometimes a hollow, uncanny shout comes across the 

 water from a neighbouring smack : " Who are you ? 

 Is that the Rose ? How do you like this, mon vieux ? " 



Suddenly, perhaps, the mist clears, and the rocky, 

 cheerless coast of Iceland comes in sight. Bearing north- 

 west, the boats make for where the sea seems smoother, 

 yet is bubbling and boiling and seething with white foam. 

 Now the lower western point of the island is on their 

 right ; if the air were a little clearer the outline of the 

 nearest of the hospitable fjords, whither the fishers must 

 retire in exceptionally dangerous weather, would be visible ; 

 as it is, all that can be seen is the lava plain south 

 of Reikjavik. Further still to westward, the little corner 

 peninsula is almost out of sight again ; the Banks are 

 reached at last the home, for the next five months, of 

 the cod-crews. 



There is bustle enough on board now : sail to be taken 

 in, salt-tubs to be dragged out of the hold, knives to be 

 sharpened, hooks and lines to pass final examination. 

 To-morrow fishing will begin. 



At first the catches seem poor ; either the season has 

 not really begun, or the men are out of gear and have not 

 got back to the old working groove yet. Codding is not 

 work for weaklings. On the Iceland Banks the muscular 

 labour is even greater than on the Grand Banks, where 

 the fishing is mainly done from small boats ; here the line 

 must be hauled up every time on to the deck of the smack. 

 A cod sometimes measures three feet from tip to tail ; 

 it weighs from half to three-quarters of a hundredweight 

 often nearly a hundred pounds. Think what it means 



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