r drifters were shooting their nets. Their talk
lingered on the water; small voices that yet sounded strong. By the
light of the moon I counted twenty-seven drifters, some of them great
harbour craft from Cornwall, carrying fifteen or more nets. It seemed
as if not a herring on that little fishing ground could escape the long
fleets of nets.

We lighted the paraffin flare; supped on sandwiches and oily tea. We
stamped about the stern-sheets to try and warm our feet. We sat awhile
beneath the cutty. We thought we smelt fish, but it might have been
only the smoke from our oil fire and the herring roe plastered about
the boat. Despairing of sleep in such a cold, we sang and smoked.

Presently a plash of oars. Little punts were detaching themselves from
the larger drifters and flitting about on the sea like slow-winged
moon-butterflies. One came alongside.

"Whu's that there?"

"Tony an' John Widger--Have 'em been catching much to Hallsands?--Be
they Plymouth drifters up t'night?--What price yu been making?--How
deep yu got yer nets?--Have 'ee catched holt the bottom?--How's Aaron
an' Charles?--Did he get back ort o' his gear?--Us an't done a gert
deal eet. Few thousands thees week. Be yu going to haul in
soon?--Better, be her? Thought her was dead by now...."

[Sidenote: _HAULING IN_]

The fish-gossip over, we knew all the news of our stretch of coast.
After taking another cigarette and another pull at our 'drop o' summut
short,' the man in the punt rowed off to his drifter.

"D' yu know your fourth buoy's awash?" he shouted back.

"Is it, by God!" said John.

"I can see 'tis," said Tony.

"G'out! why didn' 'ee see 'twas afore then? Let's go an' luke."

We buoyed the end of the road and started rowing alongside the
net-buoys. The fourth was bobbing up and down. The fifth appeared now
and then. None of the others was visible.

"Damn'd if us bain't going to see some sport!" shouted John as we
hastened back to take up the road.

We tugged on oilskins and then waited watchfully--for the inside net to
fill as well. The third buoy disappeared. The second went awash. "Now
'tis time, ain't it?"

"Iss, I reckon."

We bent to it, and began to haul.

The road come in heavy: John hauled and Tony coiled. As the net rose we
saw a shimmer in the water, not of sea-fire--it was too cold--but of
silver-sided herring. Then John took the foot of the net, Tony the mesh
and myself the headrope. One strain. Altogether! Net a