When the whole crew was turned out at daylight the next morning, they found dreary, shivering weather up on the cold deck; but after the hot coffee and hearty breakfast which the cook had ready for them, they felt better. All were then soon off in their dories, going in the direction of the several buoy-flags left at the outer ends of their trawls the night before.
As Breeze stowed his fresh water and provisions in the stern of dory No. 6, Hank Hoffer noticed what he was doing, and sung out to know what he was afraid of, and if he didn’t want to be tied to an apron-string for fear of getting lost.
Wolfe’s hot Irish blood rushed to his face at these taunts, and he would have answered back but for Breeze, who said,
“Let him alone, Wolfe. It makes him feel a great deal worse not to be noticed at all. Nothing would please him better than to get us into a muss, and to have the skipper order us off about our business.”
“Well, I don’t know but what you are right, Breeze; but what a queer fellow you are, anyhow. It seems to me you must have been born with a wise head on your shoulders. Here I am a year older than you, but most any one hearing us talk would take you for the old boy and me for the young one.”
They rowed steadily while they talked, and soon reached the little canvas flag that marked the buoy at the outer end of their trawl.
“I wonder what luck we’re going to have?” said Breeze. “What I like best about fishing is the not knowing what you are going to catch, and the thinking whenever you have bad-luck you may have better next time.”
“I expect that is the most interesting part about most things in this world,” said Wolfe; “but with all my luck I can’t start this anchor. It’s got foul of something. I expect we’ll have to rig up the hurdy-gurdy.”
This was a small iron winch that could be set up in the bows of the dory, and which is often found necessary in heaving up heavy trawls. With its aid the refractory anchor was soon got aboard. The buoy had already been picked up, and at length the trawl began to appear. Now came the exciting moment. What would it bring? Would every hook have its fish, or would they be few and far between? They would not even consider the possibility of its being what fishermen describe as a “water haul,” or one bringing them nothing but empty hooks. Wolfe stood forward in the dory pulling in the line, while Breeze stood a few feet behind him, ready to take off the fish and stow the trawl in its tubs.
“Here he is!” cried Wolfe at last. “Number one a cod, and a jolly big fellow at that. My eye! but he must weigh fifty pounds at least. Our luck’s begun good at any rate. Bear a hand here with the gaff, Breeze. Quick! There, my hearty! lie still where you are put, and we’ll soon give you plenty of company.”