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"We ought to ha' give
him a tow, but I wanted to tell ye first."

They were close to the schooner now, the other boats a little
behind them.

"You needn't heave in the dories till after dinner," said Troop,
from the deck. "We'll dress-daown right off. Fix table, boys!"

"Deeper'n the Whale-deep," said Dan, with a wink, as he set the
gear for dressing-down. "Look at them boats that hev edged up
sence mornin'. They're all waitin' on dad. See 'em, Harve?"

"They are all alike to me." And, indeed, to a landsman the nodding
schooners around seemed run from the same mould.

"They ain't, though. That yaller, dirty packet with her bowsprit
steeved that way, she's the 'Hope of Prague'. Nick Brady's her
skipper, the meanest man on the Banks. We'll tell him so when we
strike the Main Ledge. 'Way off yander's the 'Day's Eye'. The two
Jeraulds own her. She's from Harwich; fastish, too, an' hez good
luck; but dad he'd find fish in a graveyard. Them other three,
side along, they're the 'Margie Smith', 'Rose', and 'Edith S.
Walen', all frum home. 'Guess we'll see the 'Abbie M. Deering' to-
morrer, dad, won't we? They're all slippin' over from the shoal o'
'Queereau."

"You won't see many boats to-morrow, Danny." When Troop called his
son Danny, it was a sign that the old man was pleased. "Boys,
we're too crowded," he went on, addressing the crew as they
clambered inboard. "We'll leave 'em to bait big an' catch small."
He looked at the catch in the pen, and it was curious to see how
little and level the fish ran. Save for Harvey's halibut, there
was nothing over fifteen pounds on deck.

"I'm waitin' on the weather," he added.

"Ye'll have to make it yourself, Disko, for there's no sign I can
see," said Long Jack, sweeping the clear horizon.

And yet, half an hour later, as they were dressing-down, the Bank
fog dropped on them, "between fish and fish," as they say. It
drove steadily and in wreaths, curling and smoking along the
colourless water. The men stopped dressing-down without a word.
Long Jack and Uncle Salters slipped the windlass-brakes into their
sockets, and began to heave up the anchor, the windlass jarring as
the wet hempen cable strained on the barrel. Manuel and Tom Platt
gave a hand at the last. The anchor came up with a sob, and the
riding-sail bellied as Troop steadied her at the wheel. "Up jib
and foresail," said he.

"Slip 'em in the smother," shouted Long Jack, making fast the jib-
sheet, while the others raised the clacking, rattling rings of the
foresail; and the fore-boom creaked as the "We're Here" looked up
into the wind and dived off into blank, whirling white.

"There's wind behind this fog," said Troop.

It was all wonderful beyond words to Harvey; and the most
wonderful part was that he heard no orders except an occasional
grunt from Troop, ending with, "That's good, my son!"

"'Never seen anchor weighed before?" said Tom Platt, to Harvey

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