"It's Penn an' Uncle Salters caountin' catch. This beats the circus any day," said Dan. "Jest look at 'em!"
"Come in—come in!" roared Long Jack. "It's wet out yondher, children."
"Forty-two, ye said." This was Uncle Salters.
"I'll count again, then," the voice replied meekly. The two dories swung together and bunted into the schooner's side.
"Patience o' Jerusalem!" snapped Uncle Salters, backing water with a splash. "What possest a farmer like you to set foot in a boat beats me. You've nigh stove me all up."
"I am sorry, Mr. Salters. I came to sea on account of nervous dyspepsia. You advised me, I think."
"You an' your nervis dyspepsy be drowned in the Whale-hole," roared Uncle Salters, a fat and tubby little man. "You're comin' down on me agin. Did ye say forty-two or forty-five?"
"I've forgotten, Mr. Salters. Let's count."
"Don't see as it could be forty-five. I'm forty-five," said Uncle Salters. "You count keerful, Penn."
Disko Troop came out of the cabin. "Salters, you pitch your fish in naow at once," he said in the tone of authority.