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Page 15
"His name's Harvey," said Dan, waving two strangely shaped
knives, "an' he'll be worth five of any Sou' Boston clam-digger 'fore
long." He laid the knives tastefully on the table, cocked his head
on one side, and admired the effect.
"I think it's forty-two," said a small voice overside, and there was a
roar of laughter as another voice answered, "Then my luck's turned
fer onct, 'caze I'm forty-five, though I be stung outer all shape."
"Forty-two or forty-five. I've lost count," the small voice said.
"It's Penn an' Uncle Salters caountin' catch. This beats the circus
any day," said Dan. "Jest look at 'em!"
"Come in--come in!" roared Long Jack. "It's wet out yondher,
children."
"Forty-two, ye said." This was Uncle Salters.
"I'll count again, then," the voice replied meekly. The two dories
swung together and bunted into the schooner's side.
"Patience o' Jerusalem!" snapped Uncle Salters, backing water
with a splash. "What possest a farmer like you to set foot in a boat
beats me. You've nigh stove me all up."
"I am sorry, Mr. Salters. I came to sea on account of nervous
dyspepsia. You advised me, I think."
"You an' your nervis dyspepsy be drowned in the Whale-hole,"
roared Uncle Salters, a fat and tubby little man. "You're comin'
down on me agin. Did ye say forty-two or forty-five?"
"I've forgotten, Mr. Salters. Let's count."
"Don't see as it could be forty-five. I'm forty-five," said Uncle
Salters. "You count keerful, Penn."
Disko Troop came out of the cabin. "Salters, you pitch your fish in
naow at once," he said in the tone of authority.
"Don't spile the catch, Dad," Dan murmured. "Them two are on'y
jest beginnin'."
"Mother av delight! He's forkin' them wan by wan," howled Long
Jack, as Uncle Salters got to work laboriously; the little man in the
other dory counting a line of notches on the gunwale.
"That was last week's catch," he said, looking up plaintively, his
forefinger where he had left off.
Manuel nudged Dan, who darted to the after-tackle, and, leaning
far overside, slipped the hook into the stern-rope as Manuel made
her fast forward. The others pulled gallantly and swung the boat
in--man, fish, and all.
"One, two, four-nine," said Tom Platt, counting with a practised
eye. "Forty-seven. Penn, you're it!" Dan let the after-tackle run, and
slid him out of the stern on to the deck amid a torrent of his own
fish.
"Hold on!" roared Uncle Salters, bobbing by the waist. "Hold on,
I'm a bit mixed in my caount."
He had no time to protest, but was hove inboard and treated like
"Pennsylvania."
"Forty-one," said Tom Platt. "Beat by a farmer, Salters. An' you
sech a sailor, too!"
"'Tweren't fair caount," said he, stumbling out of the pen; "an' I'm
stung up all to pieces."
His thick hands were puffy and mottled purply white.
"Some folks will find strawberry-bottom," said Dan, addressing the
newly risen moon, "ef they hev to dive fer it, seems to me."
"An' others," said Uncle Salters, "eats the fat o' the land in sloth,
an' mocks their own blood-kin."
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