They were accustomed to see this varying infinitude play about their paltry ark of planks, and their eyes were as used to it as those of the great free ocean-birds.
The boat rolled gently with its everlasting wail, as monotonous as a Breton song moaned by a sleeper.

Yann and Sylvestre had got their bait and lines ready, while their mate opened a barrel of salt, and whetting his long knife went and sat behind them, waiting.
He did not have long to wait, or they either.

They scarcely had thrown their lines into the calm, cold water in fact, before they drew in huge heavy fish, of a steel-grey sheen.

And time after time the codfish let themselves be hooked in a rapid and unceasing silent series.

The third man ripped them open with his long knife, spread them flat, salted and counted them, and piled up the lot--which upon their return would constitute their fortune--behind them, all still redly streaming and still sweet and fresh.
The hours passed monotonously, while in the immeasurably empty regions beyond the light slowly changed till it grew less unreal.