“The luck’s cut square in two pieces,” said Long Jack, forking in the fish, while Harvey stood open-mouthed at the skill with which the plunging dory was saved from destruction.  “One half was jest punkins.  Tom Platt wanted to haul her an’ ha’ done wid ut; but I said, “I’ll back the doctor that has the second sight, an’ the other half come up sagging full o’ big uns.  Hurry, Man’nle, an’ bring’s a tub o’ bait.  There’s luck afloat to-night.”

The fish bit at the newly baited hooks from which their brethren had just been taken, and Tom Platt and Long Jack moved methodically up and down the length of the trawl, the boat’s nose surging under the wet line of hooks, stripping the sea-cucumbers that they called pumpkins, slatting off the fresh-caught cod against the gunwale, rebaiting, and loading Manuel’s dory till dusk.

“I’ll take no risks,” said Disko then—­“not with him floatin’ around so near.  Abishal won’t sink fer a week.  Heave in the dories an’ we’ll dress daown after supper.”

That was a mighty dressing-down, attended by three or four blowing grampuses.  It lasted till nine o’clock, and Disko was thrice heard to chuckle as Harvey pitched the split fish into the hold.

“Say, you’re haulin’ ahead dretful fast,” said Dan, when they ground the knives after the men had turned in.  “There’s somethin’ of a sea to-night, an’ I hain’t heard you make no remarks on it.”

“Too busy,” Harvey replied, testing a blade’s edge.  “Come to think of it, she is a high-kicker.”

The little schooner was gambolling all around her anchor among the silver-tipped waves.  Backing with a start of affected surprise at the sight of the strained cable, she pounced on it like a kitten, while the spray of her descent burst through the hawse-holes with the report of a gun.  Shaking her head, she would say:  “Well, I’m sorry I can’t stay any longer with you.  I’m going North,” and would sidle off, halting suddenly with a dramatic rattle of her rigging.  “As I was just going to observe,” she would begin, as gravely as a drunken man addressing a lamp-post.  The rest of the sentence (she acted her words in dumb-show, of course) was lost in a fit of the fidgets, when she behaved like a puppy chewing a string, a clumsy woman in a side-saddle, a hen with her head cut off, or a cow stung by a hornet, exactly as the whims of the sea took her.

“See her sayin’ her piece.  She’s Patrick Henry naow,” said Dan.

She swung sideways on a roller, and gesticulated with her jib-boom from port to starboard.

“But-ez-fer me, give me liberty-er give me-death!”

Wop!  She sat down in the moon-path on the water, courtesying with a flourish of pride impressive enough had not the wheel-gear sniggered mockingly in its box.

Harvey laughed aloud.  “Why, it’s just as if she was alive,” he said.

“She’s as stiddy as a haouse an’ as dry as a herrin’,” said Dan enthusiastically, as he was slung across the deck in a batter of spray.  “Fends ’em off an’ fends ’em off, an’ ’Don’t ye come anigh me,’ she sez.  Look at her—­jest look at her!  Sakes!  You should see one o’ them toothpicks histin’ up her anchor on her spike outer fifteen-fathom water.”