ch 'em bunchy," shouted Dan. "Don't scatter! Uncle Salters is
the best splitter in the fleet. Watch him mind his book!"

Indeed, it looked a little as though the round uncle were cutting
magazine pages against time. Manuel's body, cramped over from the hips,
stayed like a statue; but his long arms grabbed the fish without
ceasing. Little Penn toiled valiantly, but it was easy to see he was
weak. Once or twice Manuel found time to help him without breaking the
chain of supplies, and once Manuel howled because he had caught his
finger in a Frenchman's hook. These hooks are made of soft metal, to be
rebent after use; but the cod very often get away with them and are
hooked again elsewhere; and that is one of the many reasons why the
Gloucester boats despise the Frenchmen.

Down below, the rasping sound of rough salt rubbed on rough flesh
sounded like the whirring of a grindstone--steady undertune to the
"click-nick" of knives in the pen; the wrench and shloop of torn heads,
dropped liver, and flying offal; the "caraaah" of Uncle Salters's knife
scooping away backbones; and the flap of wet, open bodies falling into
the tub.

At the end of an hour Harvey would have given the world to rest; for
fresh, wet cod weigh more than you would think, and his back ached with
the steady pitching. But he felt for the first time in his life that he
was one of the working gang of men, took pride in the thought, and held
on sullenly.

"Knife oh!" shouted Uncle Salters at last. Penn doubled up, gasping
among the fish, Manuel bowed back and forth to supple himself, and Long
Jack leaned over the bulwarks. The cook appeared, noiseless as a black
shadow, collected a mass of backbones and heads, and retreated.

"Blood-ends for breakfast an' head-chowder," said Long Jack, smacking
his lips.

"Knife oh!" repeated Uncle Salters, waving the flat, curved splitter's
weapon.

"Look by your foot, Harve," cried Dan below.

Harvey saw half a dozen knives stuck in a cleat in the hatch combing.
He dealt these around, taking over the dulled ones.

"Water!" said Disko Troop.

"Scuttle-butt's for'ard an' the dipper's alongside. Hurry, Harve," said
Dan.

He was back in a minute with a big dipperful of stale brown water which
tasted like nectar, and loosed the jaws of Disko and Tom Platt.

"These are cod," said Disko. "They ain't Damarskus figs, Tom Platt, nor
yet silver bars. I've told you that ever single time since we've sailed
together."

"A