But 'twas a smaller one.
"About a seven-pounder," pronounces the captain, safely landing him on deck, where he was unhooked, and left to wriggle and jump out his agonies.
A minute later, Raed had out a "ten-pounder;" and, having once begun to bite, they kept at it, until the deck grew lively with their frantic leaping.
"Got all we want!" cried the skipper, after about an hour of this sort of thing.

"There's a good two hundred weight of them .-- Here, Palmleaf, pick 'em up, dress 'em, and put 'em in pickle: save what we want for dinner .-- Now, you Donovan and Hobbs, bear a hand with those buckets.
Rinse off the bulwarks, and wash up the deck." "This is the kind of sport they have on a cod-fisher every day, I suppose," said Raed.
"Yes; but it gets mighty stale when you have to follow it for a month," replied Donovan.

"I know what cod-fishing is." ...

Toward noon the sun began to show its broad disk, dimly outlined in the white mists.

The captain ran for his sextant; and an observation was caught, which, being worked up, gave our latitude at 45 deg.