Not until well into the afternoon, when the last mackerel was flattened out in its barrel, did any of us feel that we could step back in our own time, straighten ourselves out, and take a look over our work. Then we counted the oozing barrels with great satisfaction, you may be sure, even while we were massaging our swollen wrists with our aching fingers. It was a good bit of work that, well and quickly done, and it was fine to get a rest after it, although it might be only for a little while. Even though we had to do it all over again––to stay half-drowned and chilled through in the seine-boat or dory for half the night and then dress down for eighteen or twenty hours on top of it––what did a little hard work matter? “Think of the hundred-dollar bill, maybe, to be carried home and laid in the wife’s lap,” said Long Steve.
“Or the roaring night ashore when a fellow’s not a family man––m-m––!” said Eddie Parsons. Eddie was not a family man.
XXIV
THE WITHROW OUTSAILS THE DUNCAN
We certainly were feeling pretty good along about that time, and we felt better when next day, cruising in and out among the fleet, other crews began to take notice of our catch. By that time the word had gone around. One after another they came sailing up––as if to size us up was the last thing that could enter their heads––rounding to, and then a hail. Something like this it went:
“Hulloh, Maurice.”
“Hulloh, Wesley,” or George Drake, or Al McNeill, or whoever it might be.
“That’s a mighty pretty deckload of fish. When’d y’get ’em?”