THE COD-FISHERY 



the little vibratory " nubbling " that experience has taught 

 him is a bite. With a loud laugh, he begins to haul in 

 like fury, hand over hand, the sodden line falling in snaky, 

 oval coils between his sea-booted legs. The cleaners lean 

 over the side, laughing, too, at the friendly rivalry between 

 the fishers, and watching with a sort of gambler's interest 

 to see whose fish will come up first. 



Plomb! Splash! The stronger man has won after all, 

 though he had to pull from the bottom. Up comes a cod 

 as big round as his thigh, " kicking " and struggling and 

 wriggling as it falls on the deck ; and before the hook is 

 disgorged another, equally big, lies by its side; and in 

 less than a minute a couple more are jerked out of the 

 water and left near them. Down go all four lines again, 

 but the cleaners calmly go on finishing their pipes ; they 

 want to see something of a heap before they begin ; hard 

 work will come quite soon enough without going to meet 

 it. The minutes drag on ; the four fish have became 

 eight, and the eight sixteen. Some are lying motionless, 

 others are gasping and flapping their tails as if in feeble 

 protest ; poor creatures, their flapping days are nearly 

 over. 



The cleaners have to bestir themselves now. Near 

 them is a barrel of salt, the head of which has been 

 knocked in ; each scoops from it sufficient to make a good 

 heap which he deposits at his side, and the task of salting 

 begins. Every fish is carefully ripped up, gutted, and 

 well coated inside and out with salt ; then laid out flat, 

 and stacked one above another in an ever increasing heap. 

 Presently one of the crew will come along with cases, into 



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