counting a line of notches on the gunwale.
“That was last week’s catch,” he said, looking up plaintively, his forefinger where he had left off.
Manuel nudged Dan, who darted to the after-tackle, and, leaning far overside, slipped the hook into the stern-rope as Manuel made her fast forward. The others pulled gallantly and swung the boat in—man, fish, and all.
“One, two, four—nine,” said Tom Platt, counting with a practised eye. “Forty-seven. Penn, you’re it!” Dan let the after-tackle run, and slid him out of the stern on to the deck amid a torrent of his own fish.
“Hold on!” roared Uncle Salters, bobbing by the waist. “Hold on, I’m a bit mixed in my caount.”
He had no time to protest, but was hove inboard and treated like “Pennsylvania.”
“Forty-one,” said Tom Platt. “Beat by a