She's from Harwich; fastish, too, an' hez good luck; but Dad he'd find fish in a graveyard.

Them other three, side along, they're the Margie Smith, Rose, and Edith S.Walen, all from home.

'Guess we'll see the Abbie M.
Deering to-morrer, Dad, won't we?
They're all slippin' over from the shaol o' 'Oueereau." "You won't see many boats to-morrow, Danny." When Troop called his son Danny, it was a sign that the old man was pleased.

"Boys, we're too crowded," he went on, addressing the crew as they clambered inboard.
"We'll leave 'em to bait big an' catch small." He looked at the catch in the pen, and it was curious to see how little and level the fish ran.

Save for Harvey's halibut, there was nothing over fifteen pounds on deck.
"I'm waitin' on the weather," he added.
"Ye'll have to make it yourself, Disko, for there's no sign I can see," said Long Jack, sweeping the clear horizon.
And yet, half an hour later, as they were dressing down, the Bank fog dropped on them, "between fish and fish," as they say.