"Can you give us the latitude?"
"Can't do it, skippy. Haven't seen the sun for a week. Not far from forty-five degrees, I reckon."
"Are we in any danger of Cape Race?"
"Not a bit. We're more than a hundred miles east of it, I think."
The little schooner, of not more than sixty tons, drifted slowly past. There were seven hands on deck; all boys of sixteen and eighteen, save one. This is the training which makes the Gloucester sailors so prized for our navy.
... During the evening, we heard at a distance the deep, grum whistle of the Inman steamer going down to Halifax,—whistling at intervals to warn the fishermen. It continued foggy all night, but looked thinner by nine next morning. The captain brought up an armful of out-riggers (a short spar three or four feet long to set in the side-rail, with a small pulley-block in the upper end to run a line through.)
"Now, boys," said he, setting the out-riggers, "we will try the cod.—Palmleaf! Palmleaf! Here, you sunburnt son! A big chunk of pork!"
"They won't bite it," said old Trull.
"I've sometimes caught 'em with it," replied the captain. "It's pork or nothing. We've no clams nor manhaden (a small fish of the shad family) to lure them."
The stout cod-hooks, with their strong linen lines, were reeved through the blocks, baited, and let down into the green water. For some time we fished in silence. No bites. We kept patiently fishing for fifteen minutes. It began to look as if old Trull was right. Presently Kit jerked hastily.