the shrouds, the boat’s bow bumping dully on the waves as she falls.  To all these sounds of the sea comes soon to be added one that is peculiar to the banks, a sound rising from the deck of the vessel, a multitude of little taps, rhythmical, muffled, soft as though a corps of clog-dancers were dancing a lively jig in rubber-soled shoes.  It is the dance of death of the hapless mackerel.  All about the deck they flap and beat their little lives away.  Scales fly in every direction, and the rigging, almost to the masthead, is plastered with them.

When the deck is nearly full—­and sometimes a single haul of the seine will more than fill it twice—­the labor of dipping is interrupted and all hands turn to with a will to dress and pack the fish.  Not pretty work, this, and as little pleasing to perform.  Barrels, boards, and sharp knives are in requisition.  Torches are set up about the deck.  The men divide up into gangs of four each and group themselves about the “keelers,” or square, shallow boxes into which the fish to be dressed are bailed from the deck.  Two men in each gang are “splitters”; two “gibbers.”  The first, with a dextrous slash of a sharp knife splits the fish down the back, and throws it to the “gibber,” who, with a twist of his thumb—­armed with a mitt—­extracts the entrails and throws the fish into a barrel of brine.  By long practise the men become exceedingly expert in the work, and rivalry among the gangs keeps the pace of all up to the highest possible point.  All through the night they work until the deck is cleaned of fish, and slimy with blood and scales.  The men, themselves, are ghastly, besmeared as they are from top to toe with the gore of the mackerel.  From time to time, full barrels are rolled away, and lowered into the hold, and fresh fish raised from the slowly emptying seine alongside.  Until the last fish has been sliced, cleaned, plunged into brine, and packed away there can be little respite from the muscle grinding work.  From time to time, the pail of tepid water is passed about; once at least during the night, the cook goes from gang to gang with steaming coffee, and now and then some man whose wrist is wearied beyond endurance, knocks off, and with contortions of pain, rubs his arm from wrist to elbow.  But save for these momentary interruptions, there is little break in the work.  Meanwhile the boat is plunging along through the water, the helm lashed or in beckets, and the skipper hard at work with a knife or gibbing mitt.  A score of other boats in a radius of half a mile or so, will be in like case, so there is always danger of collision.  Many narrow escapes and not a few accidents have resulted from the practice of cleaning up while under sail.

[Illustration:  FISHING FROM THE RAIL]