"We have hardly seen a mackerel this year yet. I never knew them to be so scarce since I have been on this coast."
"There hasn't been any caught before these for a month, and then only a few tinkers," added Leopold, as he removed the wet rock-weed with which he had covered the fish to protect them from the sun. "They are handsome ones, too."
"So they are—number ones every one of them, and some extra," said the landlord, as he raised the fish with his hand so that he could see them.
"They were the handsomest lot of mackerel I ever saw," continued the young fisherman, his face glowing with satisfaction. "I brought up three dozen for you, and sold the rest. I made a good haul to-day."
"Three dozen will be all we can use in the house, as big as those are. Two dozen would have been enough; we don't have many people here now. But where did you get them?"
"Just off High Rock, where the Waldo was wrecked. I fished within a cable's length of the Ledges. I don't know but the sugar and molasses from the brig drew the mackerel around her," laughed Leopold, as he took an old black wallet from his pocket.
"Were there any other boats near you?" asked the prudent landlord.
"Not another one; folks are tired of trying for mackerel, and have given it up. I didn't expect to find any, but I happened to have my jigs in the boat; and for an hour I worked three of them as lively as any fellow ever did, I can tell you."
"Did they ask you at the fish market where you got them?"
"They did; but I didn't tell them," laughed the young man. "The mackerel fetched a good price. I counted off three hundred and twenty-four at ten cents apiece, and wouldn't take any less. They are scarce, and I saw them selling the fish at twenty cents apiece; so they will make as much as I do. Here is the money—thirty-two dollars and forty cents."