“You an’ me we’ll sluice that out when they’re through.  ’Send we’ll hev full pens to-night!  I’ve seen her down ha’af a foot with fish waitin’ to clean, an’ we stood to the tables till we was splittin’ ourselves instid o’ them, we was so sleepy.  Yes, they’re comm’ in naow.”  Dan looked over the low bulwarks at half a dozen dories rowing towards them over the shining, silky sea.

“I’ve never seen the sea from so low down,” said Harvey.  “It’s fine.”

The low sun made the water all purple and pinkish, with golden lights on the barrels of the long swells, and blue and green mackerel shades in the hollows.  Each schooner in sight seemed to be pulling her dories towards her by invisible strings, and the little black figures in the tiny boats pulled like clockwork toys.

“They’ve struck on good,” said Dan, between his half-shut eyes.  “Manuel hain’t room fer another fish.  Low ez a lily-pad in still water, Aeneid he?”

“Which is Manuel?  I don’t see how you can tell ’em ’way off, as you do.”

“Last boat to the south’ard.  He fund you last night,” said Dan, pointing.  “Manuel rows Portugoosey; ye can’t mistake him.  East o’ him—­he’s a heap better’n he rows—­is Pennsylvania.  Loaded with saleratus, by the looks of him.  East o’ him—­see how pretty they string out all along—­with the humpy shoulders, is Long Jack.  He’s a Galway man inhabitin’ South Boston, where they all live mostly, an’ mostly them Galway men are good in a boat.  North, away yonder—­you’ll hear him tune up in a minute is Tom Platt.  Man-o’-war’s man he was on the old Ohio first of our navy, he says, to go araound the Horn.  He never talks of much else, ’cept when he sings, but he has fair fishin’ luck.  There!  What did I tell you?”

A melodious bellow stole across the water from the northern dory.  Harvey heard something about somebody’s hands and feet being cold, and then: 

“Bring forth the chart, the doleful chart,
See where them mountings meet! 
The clouds are thick around their heads,
The mists around their feet.”

“Full boat,” said Dan, with a chuckle.  “If he give us ‘0 Captain’ it’s topping’ too!”

The bellow continued: 

“And naow to thee, 0 Capting,
Most earnestly I pray,
That they shall never bury me
In church or cloister gray.”

“Double game for Tom Platt.  He’ll tell you all about the old Ohio tomorrow.  ’See that blue dory behind him?  He’s my uncle,—­Dad’s own brother,—­an’ ef there’s any bad luck loose on the Banks she’ll fetch up agin Uncle Salters, sure.  Look how tender he’s rowin’.  I’ll lay my wage and share he’s the only man stung up to-day —­an’ he’s stung up good.”

“What’ll sting him?” said Harvey, getting interested.

“Strawberries, mostly.  Pumpkins, sometimes, an’ sometimes lemons an’ cucumbers.  Yes, he’s stung up from his elbows down.  That man’s luck’s perfectly paralyzin’.  Naow we’ll take a-holt o’ the tackles an’ hist ’em in.  Is it true what you told me jest now, that you never done a hand’s turn o’ work in all your born life?  Must feel kinder awful, don’t it?”