“I like Penn, though; we all do,” said Dan. “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 mold.
“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 yonder’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 from home. ’Guess we’ll see the Abbie M. Deering to-morrer, Dad, won’t we? They’re all slippin’ over from the shaol o’ ’Oueereau.”
“You won’t see many boats tomorrow, 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.