re, there was a species of rivalry.

When Spivin observed that Luke was about to pull out the last loop that
held the bag, he shouted in a loud voice of alarm--

"Hallo! Billy, catch hold of this rope, quick!"

Billy turned like a flash of light and seized the rope held out to him.
The momentary distraction was enough. Before he could understand the
joke the bottom of the bag opened, the ton-and-a-half, more or less, of
fish burst forth, spread itself over the deck like an avalanche, swept
Billy off his little legs, and almost overwhelmed him, to the immense
delight of Spivin, who impudently bent down and offered to help him to
rise.

"Come here, Billy, and I'll help you up," he said, kindly, as the tail
of a skate flipped across the boy's nose, and almost slid into his
mouth.

Billy made no reply, but, clearing himself of fish, jumped up, seized a
gaping cod by the gills, and sent it all alive and kicking straight into
Spivin's face. The aim was true. The man was blinded for a few moments
by the fish, and his mates were well-nigh choked with laughter.

"Come, come--no sky-larking!" growled the skipper. "Play when your work
is done, boys."

Thus reproved, the crew began to clear away the mass of weeds and
refuse, after which all hands prepared the trawl to be ready for going
down again, and then they set to work to clean and sort the fish. This
was comparatively easy work at that season of the year, but when winter
gales and winter frosts sweep over the North Sea, only those who suffer
it know what it is to stand on the slimy pitching deck with naked and
benumbed hands, disembowelling fish and packing them in small oblong
boxes called "trunks," for the London market. And little do Londoners
think, perhaps, when eating their turbot, sole, plaice, cod, haddock,
whiting, or other fish, by what severe night-work, amid bitter cold, and
too often tremendous risks, the food has been provided for them.

It is not, however, our purpose to moralise just now, though we might do
so with great propriety, but to tell our story, on which some of the
seemingly trifling incidents of that night had a special bearing. One
of those incidents was the cutting of a finger. Ned Spivin, whose
tendency towards fun and frolic at all times rendered him rather
slap-dash and careless, was engaged in the rather ignoble work of
cutting off skates' tails--these appendages not being deemed marketable.
This operation he performed with a