Ef you run acrost any of their soft hooks, Harvey, you'll know why," said Dan, with an awful contempt.
"Always more and never less, Every time we come to dress," Long Jack roared down the hatch, and the "second ha'af" scrambled up at once.
The shadow of the masts and rigging, with the never-furled riding-sail, rolled to and fro on the heaving deck in the moonlight; and the pile of fish by the stern shone like a dump of fluid silver.

In the hold there were tramplings and rumblings where Disko Troop and Tom Platt moved among the salt-bins.

Dan passed Harvey a pitchfork, and led him to the inboard end of the rough table, where Uncle Salters was drumming impatiently with a knife-haft.

A tub of salt water lay at his feet.
"You pitch to dad an' Tom Platt down the hatch, an' take keer Uncle Salters don't cut yer eye out," said Dan, swinging himself into the hold.

"I'll pass salt below." Penn and Manuel stood knee deep among cod in the pen, flourishing drawn knives.