"How many do you think we got that time?" Walter inquired, over a second cup of coffee.
"About twelve hundred pounds of mullet," he judged, "some thirty odd pounds of trout and about two hundred pounds of bottom fish," say twenty-eight dollars' worth altogether. "That's pretty fair for one run. If we can get in four more runs like it before daylight, it will make a good night's work."
"Four more runs," cried Walter in dismay, all his aches and pains returning at the thought, "why I don't believe I can last out one more."
"I know it's tough on you two," said Charley sympathetically, "but we have got to do it. We cannot hope to make money by just making one or two runs a night. It will not be quite so bad after you get hardened to it. I know just how you feel. I once fished every night steady for six months and we made from six to eight runs each night. I was new to the business then and I thought the first two or three nights that it would certainly kill me. Tired. Why many a time I've gone sound asleep while rowing and fallen over into the bottom of the boat amongst the fish without waking up. Oh, it's tough all right, but you have got to get used to it."
Walter was silent. He was doing a sum in mental arithmetic, "eight runs a night. Four hundred yards of net to run out each time and four hundred yards of net to take in. Eight hundred yards multiplied eight times was six thousand four hundred yards or over three miles besides all the endless rowing." Why it was more than flesh and blood could stand. Was any amount of money worth such nerve and muscle racking labor? He was still pondering this when his chum gave the order to start again and they once more fell into the old formation and rowed silently on into the darkness.
Mile after mile they rowed steadily on until the launch's lanterns showed only a pin point of light in the distance. The ache in Walter's muscles grew to an acute pain. Every stroke of the oars was an effort that seemed impossible to repeat. All around his boat came and went darting flashes of many fish. Again the old question arose. Why all this aimless, senseless rowing. He felt a hot unreasoning resentment against his chum that grew with his deadly weariness and at last flowed out in speech.
"Charley," he snapped out across the water, "I'm getting sick of this nonsense. There's fish all around us. Let's either try to catch them or go home. I'm tired of this rowing, rowing, rowing for nothing."
Charley was silent a moment before replying. Matters had come to the pass he had feared. He had witnessed the same thing many times with new beginners. One of two things must happen, either Walter must learn to have faith in his leadership until he himself had gained experience or else they must give up fishing. No amount of argument would convince him like a bit of experience, as the result of having his own way in something he knew nothing about. It was bitter medicine but it was the only treatment which would check the disease, however, he decided to give his chum one last chance.
"I am doing the best I know how, Walt," he answered. "I have to follow my best judgment in this fishing so long as I am running head boat."
"Judgment nothing," scoffed Walter angrily, "there's no judgment in rowing our arms off when there are fish all around us."