THE COD-FISHERY 



and shouts to the two or three lads or men who are 

 resting : " Now then, come on ! No skulking ; it's harvest- 

 time ! " The tired fellows know what is meant, and every- 

 one pulls himself together with a good will. Ejacula- 

 tions of joy or surprise escape them as they look over 

 the gunwale and mechanically uncoil the lines, or bait the 

 hooks. For down below are thousands, nay millions, of 

 full-sized cods, with steely backs and silver bellies, dash- 

 ing up and down in line, or lying motionless and looking 

 upwards as if they had come to be fed. 



There is no talk of cleaning or salting now ; that 

 must all be done afterwards. Every man throws in his 

 line, knowing that long before the hook reaches the bottom 

 he will feel the sudden little shock that announces a 

 capture ; and this must go on hour after hour, perhaps all 

 through the night, in spite of stiffening muscles and 

 aching backs. At last the shoal thins down ; half the 

 crew falls out and, by way of rest, sets to work on the 

 gigantic mound of fish ; obliged first to kneel, then stand, 

 then stoop, in order to keep themselves awake ; 



" Achin' for an hour's sleep, dozin' off between," 



as Mr. Kipling hath it. Already the day is dawning, not 



as we understand dawn in England, for it has not been 



really dark all night ; but the ghostly yellow light is 



growing of a whiter shade. Presently the sky will redden, 



the dun-coloured clouds will part, and it will be morning. 



Meanwhile the wind has got up; the halliards rattle 



petulantly and there is a mournful creaking and sighing in 



the shrouds. A summer storm is coming on ; maybe only 



G 97 



