As to the magnitude of the industry, it is estimated that there are about 3,000 vessels and 20,000 men employed in it during the season.  Some of the vessels are employed in merely bringing salt and taking away the fish, notably the great iron tramp steamers of from 1,500 to 2,000 tons, which seem so much out of place moored to the sides of some of the little rocky harbors.  The average catch in a good year is, we were informed, from four to six hundred quintals in a vessel of perhaps forty tons, by a crew of from four to eight men.  The trap outfit costs about $500 and is furnished by the large fish firms in Newfoundland, to be paid for with fish.  As the market price, to the fishermen, is from five dollars to six dollars a quintal, the value of the industry is at once apparent.

The great bulk of the fish go to Mediterranean ports direct, to Catholic countries, chiefly, and also to Brazil.  The small size and imperfect curing which the Labrador summer allows make the fish almost unsalable in English and American markets.  Many of the cod are of the black, Greenland variety, which are far less palatable, and are usually thrown away or cured separately for the cheaper market.

All storms come to an end finally, and at last the sun shone, the windlass clanked and we were underway.  The long delay seemed to have broken our little schooner’s spirits, for after being out three or four hours we had gone but as many miles, and those in the wrong direction.

At length the gentle breeze seemed to revive her and we gently slipped by the Ragged Islands and Cape Mokkavik.  That Sunday evening will long be remembered by us, for in addition to the delight we felt at again moving northward, and the charm of a bright evening with a gentle, fair wind and smooth water, allowing us to glide by hundreds of fulmar and shearwater sitting on the water, scarcely disturbed by our passage, the moon was paled by the brightest exhibition of the aurora we saw while in northern waters.  Its sudden darts into new quarters of the heavens, its tumultuous waves and gentle undulations, now looking like a fleecy cloud, now like a gigantic curtain shaken by still more gigantic hands into ponderous folds—­all were reflected in the quiet water and from the numerous bergs, great and small, that dotted the surface, till the beholder was at times awe-struck and silent, utterly unable to find words with which to express himself.

The next day we rounded Gull Island, which we identified with some difficulty, owing to the absence of the flagstaff by which the coast pilot says it can be distinguished, and, after a delightful sail up the clear sound leading through the fringe of islands to Hopedale, we spied the red-roofed houses and earth-covered huts, the mission houses and Eskimo village, of which the settlement consists, snugly hidden behind little “Anatokavit,” or little Snow Hill Island, at the foot of a steep and lofty hill surmounted by the mission flagstaff.  Here we were destined to pass five days as pleasant as the five at Webeck had been tedious.