Tom Platt visited her, because, he said, the dead man was his brother as a Freemason.  It came out that a wave had doubled the poor fellow over the heel of the bowsprit and broken his back.  The news spread like a flash, for, contrary to general custom, the Frenchman held an auction of the dead man’s kit,—­he had no friends at St Malo or Miquelon,—­and everything was spread out on the top of the house, from his red knitted cap to the leather belt with the sheath-knife at the back.  Dan and Harvey were out on twenty-fathom water in the Hattie S., and naturally rowed over to join the crowd.  It was a long pull, and they stayed some little time while Dan bought the knife, which had a curious brass handle.  When they dropped overside and pushed off into a drizzle of rain and a lop of sea, it occurred to them that they might get into trouble for neglecting the lines.

“Guess ’twon’t hurt us any to be warmed up,” said Dan, shivering under his oilskins, and they rowed on into the heart of a white fog, which, as usual, dropped on them without warning.

“There’s too much blame tide hereabouts to trust to your instinks,” he said.  “Heave over the anchor, Harve, and we’ll fish a piece till the thing lifts.  Bend on your biggest lead.  Three pound ain’t any too much in this water.  See how she’s tightened on her rodin’ already.”

There was quite a little bubble at the bows, where some irresponsible Bank current held the dory full stretch on her rope; but they could not see a boat’s length in any direction.  Harvey turned up his collar and bunched himself over his reel with the air of a wearied navigator.  Fog had no special terrors for him now.  They fished a while in silence, and found the cod struck on well.  Then Dan drew the sheath-knife and tested the edge of it on the gunwale.

“That’s a daisy,” said Harvey.  “How did you get it so cheap?”

“On account o’ their blame Cath’lic superstitions,” said Dan, jabbing with the bright blade.  “They don’t fancy takin’ iron from off a dead man, so to speak.  ’See them Arichat Frenchmen step back when I bid?”

“But an auction ain’t taking anythink off a dead man.  It’s business.”

“We know it ain’t, but there’s no goin’ in the teeth o’ superstition.  That’s one o’ the advantages o’ livin’ in a progressive country.”  And Dan began whistling: 

    “Oh, Double Thatcher, how are you? 
    Now Eastern Point comes inter view. 
    The girls an’ boys we soon shall see,
    At anchor off Cape Ann!”

“Why didn’t that Eastport man bid, then?  He bought his boots.  Ain’t Maine progressive?”

“Maine?  Pshaw!  They don’t know enough, or they hain’t got money enough, to paint their haouses in Maine.  I’ve seen ’em.  The Eastport man he told me that the knife had been used—­so the French captain told him—­used up on the French coast last year.”

“Cut a man?  Heave ’s the muckle.”  Harvey hauled in his fish, rebaited, and threw over.