"Nine maze—not bad for the first night," said Dan to Ewan.
"Souse them well," said Quilleash, and Ned Teare sprinkled salt on the herrings as they lay in the hold.
Crennel, the cook, better known as the "slushy," came up the hatchways with a huge saucepan, which he filled with the fish. As he did so there was a faint "cheep, cheep" from below—the herrings were still alive.
All hands went down for a smoke except Corlett, who stood at the tiller, Davy, who counted for nobody and stretched himself out at the bow, and Ewan. The young parson, who had been taking note of the lad during the night, now seated himself on a coil of rope near where Davy lay. The "cheep, cheep" was the only sound in the air except the plash of the waters at the boat's bow, and with an inclination of the head in the direction of the fish in the hold, Ewan said, "It seems cruel, Davy, doesn't it?"
"Cruel? Well, pozzible, pozzible. Och, 'deed now, they've got their feelings same as anybody else."
The parson had taken the lad's measure at a glance.
"You should see the shoals of them lying round the nets, watching the others—their mothers and sisters, as you might say—who've got their gills 'tangled. And when you haul the net up, away they go at a slant in millions and millions, just the same as lightning going through the water. Och, yes, yes, leave them alone for having their feelings."
"It does seem cruel, Davy, eh?"
Davy looked puzzled; he was reasoning out a grave problem.
"Well, sir, that's the mortal strange part of it. It does look cruel to catch them, sarten sure; but then the herrings themselves catch the sand-eels, and the cod catch the herring, and the porpoises and grampuses catch the cod."