There was no need for the caution. Every man and boy was already doing his utmost.
It fell to Billy’s lot to help in packing the trunks, and deftly he did it,—keeping soles, turbot, and halibut separate, to form boxes, or “trunks of prime,” and packing other fish as much as possible according to their kind, until he came to roker, dabs, gurnets, etcetera, which he packed together under the name of “offal.” This does not mean refuse, but only inferior fish, which are bought by hawkers, and sold to the poor. The trunks were partly open on top, but secured by cords which kept the fish from slipping out, and each trunk was labelled with the name of the smack to which it belonged, and the party to whom it was consigned.
As the fleet converged to the centre, the vessels began to crowd together and friends to recognise and hail each other, so that the scene became very animated, while the risk of collision was considerable. Indeed, it was only by consummate skill, judgment and coolness that, in many cases, collisions were avoided.
“There’s the Sparrow,” said Billy to Trevor, eagerly, as he pointed to a smack, whose master, Jim Frost, he knew and was fond of. It bore down in such a direction as to pass close under the stern of the Evening Star.
“What cheer! what cheer!” cried Billy, holding one of his little hands high above his head.
“What cheer!” came back in strong, hearty tones from the Sparrow’s deck.
“What luck, Jim?” asked David Bright, as the vessel flew past.
“We fouled an old wreck this mornin’, an’ tore the net all to pieces, but we got a good haul last night—praise the Lord.”
“Which piece o’ luck d’ye praise the Lord for?” demanded David, in a scoffing tone.
“For both,” shouted Frost, promptly. “It might have bin worse. We might have lost the gear, you know—or one o’ the hands.”