“Soundin’ is a trick, though,” said Dan, “when your dipsey lead’s all the eye you’re like to hev for a week.  What d’you make it, Dad?”

Disko’s face relaxed.  His skill and honour were involved in the march he had stolen on the rest of the Fleet, and he had his reputation as a master artist who knew the Banks blindfold.  “Sixty, mebbe—­ef I’m any judge,” he replied, with a glance at the tiny compass in the window of the house.

“Sixty,” sung out Tom Platt, hauling in great wet coils.

The schooner gathered way once more.  “Heave!” said Disko, after a quarter of an hour.

“What d’you make it?” Dan whispered, and he looked at Harvey proudly.  But Harvey was too proud of his own performances to be impressed just then.

“Fifty,” said the father.  “I mistrust we’re right over the nick o’ Green Bank on old Sixty-Fifty.”

“Fifty!” roared Tom Platt.  They could scarcely see him through the fog.  “She’s bust within a yard—­like the shells at Fort Macon.”

“Bait up, Harve,” said Dan, diving for a line on the reel.

The schooner seemed to be straying promiscuously through the smother, her headsail banging wildly.  The men waited and looked at the boys who began fishing.

“Heugh!” Dan’s lines twitched on the scored and scarred rail.  “Now haow in thunder did Dad know?  Help us here, Harve.  It’s a big un.  Poke-hooked, too.”  They hauled together, and landed a goggle-eyed twenty-pound cod.  He had taken the bait right into his stomach.

“Why, he’s all covered with little crabs,” cried Harvey, turning him over.

“By the great hook-block, they’re lousy already,” said Long Jack.  “Disko, ye kape your spare eyes under the keel.”

Splash went the anchor, and they all heaved over the lines, each man taking his own place at the bulwarks.

“Are they good to eat?” Harvey panted, as he lugged in another crab-covered cod.

“Sure.  When they’re lousy it’s a sign they’ve all been herdin’ together by the thousand, and when they take the bait that way they’re hungry.  Never mind how the bait sets.  They’ll bite on the bare hook.”

“Say, this is great!” Harvey cried, as the fish came in gasping and splashing—­nearly all poke-hooked, as Dan had said.  “Why can’t we always fish from the boat instead of from the dories?”

“Allus can, till we begin to dress daown.  Efter thet, the heads and offals ‘u’d scare the fish to Fundy.  Boatfishin’ ain’t reckoned progressive, though, unless ye know as much as dad knows.  Guess we’ll run aout aour trawl to-night.  Harder on the back, this, than frum the dory, ain’t it?”

It was rather back-breaking work, for in a dory the weight of a cod is water-borne till the last minute, and you are, so to speak, abreast of him; but the few feet of a schooner’s freeboard make so much extra dead-hauling, and stooping over the bulwarks cramps the stomach.  But it was wild and furious sport so long as it lasted; and a big pile lay aboard when the fish ceased biting.