“I never knew there were so many fish in the world!” he exclaimed. Nelson laughed.
“This is only one,” he said. “There are lots more fish yards just like it here.”
“What are they?” asked Dan. “Codfish?”
“Oh, all sorts: cod, hake, pollack—everything.”
There was row after row of benches covered with wooden slats on which the fish, still damp with the brine, were spread flat. Above the flakes, as the benches are called, strips of white cotton cloth were stretched, to moderate the heat of the sunlight. There was a strong odor of fish, and a stronger and less pleasant odor from the harbor bottom left exposed by the ebbing tide. Tom sniffed disgustedly.
“I never liked fish cakes, anyhow,” he muttered.
Beyond the flakes were the wharves and sheds, the masts of several schooners showing above the roofs. As they came to one of the open doors they stopped and looked in. Dried fish were piled here and there on the salt-encrusted floor, and men were hard at work packing them into casks.
“Will they let you go through the place?” asked Dan.
“Yes,” Nelson answered.
“Let’s go, then. I’d like to see how they do it.”