"I mistrust we're right over the nick o' Green Bank on old Sixty-Fifty." "Fifty!" roared Tom Platt.

They could scarcely see him through the fog.
"She's bust within a yard--like the shells at Fort Macon." "Bait up, Harve," said Dan, diving for a line on the reel.
The schooner seemed to be straying promiscuously through the smother, her headsail banging wildly.

The men waited and looked at the boys who began fishing.
"Heugh!" Dan's lines twitched on the scored and scarred rail.

"Now haow in thunder did Dad know?
Help us here, Harve.

It's a big un.
Poke-hooked, too." They hauled together, and landed a goggle-eyed twenty-pound cod.