110 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



grips the line between his thumb and finger, with- 

 out disturbing the bait, and waits for the first 

 signal. In a few minutes there is a little nibble, 

 that might be caused by no more than a stickle- 

 back. This gives place to a couple of determined 

 pulls, and then the fisherman responds and feels 

 the weight of a very proper adversary. By mid- 

 night we have caught fourteen eels, the largest 

 weighing about 15 Ibs., and all the while the pil- 

 chard-drivers have been passing half a mile (a 

 little more or less, since they move in tiers) to sea- 

 ward of us. And now our bait is running out, and 

 as one of the last of the fleet is (as we can tell 

 from the hoarse cries of the sea-birds round his 

 sides) hauling his nets within a few hundred yards 

 of us, we pull up the anchor and George rows 

 alongside for half a dozen pilchards straight from 

 the strangling meshes. Back to our ground we 

 go, or as near as we can hit it off with no kindly 

 assistance from landmarks, but something is at 

 fault, for during the next hour we catch only four 

 more, all small males of two or three pounds each. 

 More than once a tell-tale yawn has sounded out 

 of the darkness, and, as nothing is more catching 

 than this admission of a yearning for bed, we re- 

 spond on each occasion. From George comes a 

 yawn more terrific than the rest, so we give the 

 order for home, and up comes the anchor for the 

 last time and back we sail to the little light on 



