white on the other—perfect reproductions of the land fruit, except that there were no leaves, and the stem was all pipy and slimy.
“Don’t tech ’em. Slat ’em off. Don’t—”
The warning came too late. Harvey had picked them from the hook, and was admiring them.
“Ouch!” he cried, for his fingers throbbed as though he had grasped many nettles.
“Now ye know what strawberry-bottom means. Nothin’ ’cep’ fish should be teched with the naked fingers, Dad says. Slat ’em off agin the gunnel, an’ bait up, Harve. Lookin’ won’t help any. It’s all in the wages.”
Harvey smiled at the thought of his ten and a half dollars a month, and wondered what his mother would say if she could see him hanging over the edge of a fishing-dory in mid-ocean. She suffered agonies whenever he