"Damn'd if us bain't going to see some sport!" shouted John as we hastened back to take up the road.
We tugged on oilskins and then waited watchfully—for the inside net to fill as well. The third buoy disappeared. The second went awash. "Now 'tis time, ain't it?"
"Iss, I reckon."
We bent to it, and began to haul.
The road come in heavy: John hauled and Tony coiled. As the net rose we saw a shimmer in the water, not of sea-fire—it was too cold—but of silver-sided herring. Then John took the foot of the net, Tony the mesh and myself the headrope. One strain. Altogether! Net and fish came in over the gunwale.
"No use to try and pick 'em out yer!" said John.
"Us 'ould never ha' got 'em in wi' two," panted Tony.
"Haul, casn'! Trim the boat. We'm going to hae all us can carry if t'other nets be so full as thees yer."
We hauled, and pulled, and puffed and swore. The fish came over the side like a band of jewels, like shining grains on a huge and never-ending ear of corn, like a bright steel mat.... It was as if the moonlight itself, that flooded air and water, was solidifying into fish in the dimmer depths of the sea. A good catch must have dropped back out of the net. At times, it seemed as if nothing could move the headrope. I jammed a knee against the gunwale, waited till the dipping of the boat gave me a foot or two of line, then jammed again to hold it. The sea-birds screeched at their feast.
Tony, an inflated mannikin, danced on the piled-up nets and fish. "Help, help!" he cried to the next drifter. "Us got a catch."