Paul took from under the thwart an old shoe-knife which had been ground down to one third of its original width. It had been well sharpened for this important occasion, but he had provided an old whetstone as a further precaution against a dull blade. To skin a perch neatly and expeditiously is a nice operation; but Paul had had sufficient practice in the art to render him a skilful hand. Seating himself on the lee rail, he commenced work in earnest, occasionally glancing up to see that the boat was doing her best in the way of sailing.
"How much will you make, Paul, if you sell all your fish?" asked John.
"The perch will bring a dollar and twenty cents, if I get twenty cents a dozen for them."
"The tautog are worth something."
"They are worth a quarter apiece."
"You have done a good day's work then?"
"If I sell the fish, I shall," answered Paul, with a smile of satisfaction. "Come, John, the sail is shaking, and you have lost the wind," he added as his brother carelessly luffed her up.
"I was adding up the perch and the tautog."
"You must mind the boat; you must stop talking, if you can't do your duty without."
John promised to be more careful, and Paul had no further occasion to complain of his inattention. The younger fisherman was a good boy, but he had not yet been trained to that steadiness of purpose which is necessary to success. He was only ten years old, and it was not to be expected that he should fully appreciate the earnestness of his brother's purpose, though he was beginning to realize that close attention was necessary in order to accomplish great deeds. He was fond of trying experiments, just for the fun of the thing; and when he had been permitted to take the helm on other occasions, he wanted to do something besides keep her in a direct course—to see how close she would lie to the wind without letting the sail shake, to run down a floating mass of seaweed, or chase a stick of wood; but on this trip, he was guilty of no greater indiscretion than carelessness.