As Dan said: "'Tain't soundin's dad wants.

It's samples.

Grease her up good, Harve." Harvey would tallow the cup at the end, and carefully bring the sand, shell, sludge, or whatever it might be, to Disko, who fingered and smelt it and gave judgment.

As has been said, when Disko thought of cod he thought as a cod; and by some long-tested mixture of instinct and experience, moved the "We're Here" from berth to berth, always with the fish, as a blindfolded chess-player moves on the unseen board.
But Disko's board was the Grand Bank--a triangle two hundred and fifty miles on each side a waste of wallowing sea, cloaked with dank fog, vexed with gales, harried with drifting ice, scored by the tracks of the reckless liners, and dotted with the sails of the fishing-fleet.
For days they worked in fog--Harvey at the bell--till, grown familiar with the thick airs, he went out with Tom Platt, his heart rather in his mouth.

But the fog would not lift, and the fish were biting, and no one can stay helplessly afraid for six hours at a time.