“With the first movement of the captain’s arm, indicating the presence of fish, everybody rushes madly to the rail.  Jigs are heard on all sides plashing into the water, and eager hands and arms are stretched at their full length over the side, feeling anxiously for a nibble.

“‘Sh—­hish—­there’s something just passed my fly—­I felt him,’ says an old man standing alongside of me.

“‘Yes, and I’ve got him,’ triumphantly shouts out the next man on the other side of him, hauling in as he speaks, a fine mackerel, and striking him off into his barrel in the most approved style.

“Z-z-zip goes my line through and deep into my poor fingers, as a huge mackerel rushes savagely away with what he finds not so great a prize as he thought it was.  I get confoundedly flurried, miss stroke half a dozen times in hauling in as many fathoms of line, and at length succeed in landing my first fish safely in my barrel, where he flounders away ’most melodiously,’ as my neighbor says.

“And now it is fairly daylight, and the rain, which has been threatening all night, begins to pour down in right earnest.  As the heavy drops patter on the sea the fish begin to bite fast and furiously.

“‘Shorten up,’ says the skipper, and we shorten in our lines to about eight feet from the rail to the hooks, when we can jerk them in just as fast as we can move our hands and arms.  ‘Keep your lines clear,’ is now the word, as the doomed fish slip faster and faster into the barrels standing to receive them.  Here is one greedy fellow already casting furtive glances behind him, and calculating in his mind how many fish he will have to lose in the operation of getting his second strike-barrel.

“Now you hear no sound except the steady flip of fish into the barrels.  Every face wears an expression of anxious determination; everybody moves as though by springs; every heart beats loud with excitement, and every hand hauls in fish and throws out hooks with a methodical precision, a kind of slow haste, which unites the greatest speed with the utmost security against fouling lines.

“And now the rain increases.  We hear jibs rattling down; and glancing up hastily, I am surprised to find our vessel surrounded on all sides by the fleet, which has already become aware that we have got fish alongside.  Meantime the wind rises, and the sea struggles against the rain, which is endeavoring with its steady patter to subdue the turmoil of old ocean.  We are already on our third barrel each, and still the fish come in as fast as ever, and the business (sport it has ceased to be some time since), continues with vigor undiminished.  Thick beads of perspiration chase each other down our faces.  Jackets, caps, and even over-shirts, are thrown off, to give more freedom to the limbs that are worked to their utmost.

“‘Hillo!  Where are the fish?’ All gone.  Every line is felt eagerly for a bite, but not the faintest nibble is perceptible.  The mackerel, which but a moment ago were fairly rushing on board, have in that moment disappeared so completely that not a sign of one is left.  The vessel next under our lee holds them a little longer than we, but they finally also disappear from her side.  And so on all around us.