a loop of rope at one end of the dory. A similar
device caught a similar loop at the other end.

One strong pull and the dory rose out of the nest of four others that
lay just aft of the mainmast. A hand swung her outboard and she was
lowered away until she danced on the water.

Jimmie Thomas leaped into her, received a tub of briny squid, a
dinner-horn, and a beaker of water, besides his rectangular reels with
their heavy cord, leads, and two hooks.

"Overside port dory!" came the command, and Kent was sent on his way.
Thus one after another the men departed until on board the _Lass_
there remained only the cook and a boy helper. Code, as well as
Ellinwood, had gone out, for they wished to test the fishing.

These dories were entirely different propositions from the heavy
motor-boats that the men used almost entirely near the island. They
were light, compact, and properly big enough for only one man,
although they easily accommodated two.

The motor dories of Thomas and Code were on board, nested forward, but
they were of little use here, where only short distances are covered,
and those by rowing.

The nine dories drew away from the schooner, each in a different
direction, until they were a mile or more apart.

Code threw over his little three-fluked anchor. Then he baited his two
hooks with bits of tentacle and threw them overboard. With the big
rectangular reel in his left hand, he unwound as the leads drew down
until they fetched bottom and the line sagged. Unreeling a couple more
fathoms of line, he cast the reel aside.

Then he hauled his leads up until he judged them to be some six feet
off the bottom and waited.

Almost instantly there was a sharp jerk, and Code, with the skill of
the trained fisherman, instantly responded to it with a savage pull on
the line and a rapid hand-over-hand as he looped it into the dory. The
fish had struck on. The tough cord sung against the gunnel, and at
times it was all the skipper could do to bring up his prize, for the
great cod darted here and there, dove, rushed, and struggled to avert
the end.

Thirty fathoms is a hundred and eighty feet, and, with a huge and
desperate fish disputing every inch of the way, it becomes a seemingly
endless labor. But at last Code, straining his eyes over the side,
caught a glimpse of quick circles of white in the green and reached
for the maul that was stuck under a thwart.

Two more heaves and the cod, open-mouthed, thrashed on