irl. At such a time he would sing out
a warning, the torches would be lowered, we would duck our heads, the
boom would go swinging by in the smoky yellow glare, and the Johnnie
Duncan would be off on another tack. We would brace our legs to a new
angle, the skipper would hop back to his knife, and again the dressing
would go humming along.

When we had the first hundred barrels of mackerel swashing in brine,
the rest of them, perhaps another hundred barrels, were bailed in. And
all night long like that we stood to it driving. Under the yellow and
smoky light of the torches I could see nothing but mackerel or the
insides of mackerel in the air. Keelers, deck, rail, our hands, faces,
boots and oilskins were sticky with the blood and gurry. At top speed
we raced like that through the night. Once in a while a man would drop
his knife or snap off his gibbing mitt, rinse his hand in the brine
barrel by his side, slap his hand across the hoops, and condemn the
luck of a split finger or a thumb with a fish-bone in it. Another
might pull up for a moment, glance up at the stars or down at the
white froth under the rail, draw his hand across his forehead,
mutter, "My soul, but I'm dry," take a full dipper from the
water-pail, drink it dry, pass dipper and pail along to the next and
back to his work.

When the cook called out for breakfast we were still at it, with the
deck of the vessel covered with barrels of pickling mackerel. It was
beginning to get light then. "Oh, the blessed day's coming on. Smother
the torches, boys," said the skipper, and led the way below for the
first table to have a bite.

Before the sun came up we were beginning to make out the rest of the
fleet. One after another they were coming into view, their long hulls
and high spars reaching across the wind. Between the gray sky and the
slaty sea their white sails looked whiter than chalk.

We had to name the different vessels then. "There's Tom O'Donnell--and
Wesley Marrs--and Sam Hollis--and--" sung out Andie Howe.

"Sam Hollis--where's Sam Hollis?" broke in Mel Adams.

"Away to the east'ard, ain't it, Andie?--the fellow with jibs down?"
spoke up Billie Hurd, who was a bit proud that he too could pick her
out at such a distance.

"So it is, ain't it?" said Mel, and he began to tell our troubles in
the dory. "'Twas him near ran over us last night--remember, Joe?
Leastways, it looked like Hollis's new one's quarter goin' by. He was
pointin' 'bout no'the