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At the forecastle head of the Rosan stood a youth tolling the

ship's bell. The windlass grunted and whined as the schooner came

up on her hawser with a thump, and overhead a useless jib slatted

and rattled.

The youth could scarcely see aft of the foremast because of the

thickness of the weather, but he could hear what was going on.

There was a thump, a slimy slapping of wet fish, and a voice

counting monotonously as its owner forked his forenoon's catch

into the pen amidships.

"Forty-nine," said the voice. "All right, boys, swing her in."

And a moment later the dory, hauled high, dropped down into her

nest. Immediately there was a slight bump against the side of the

schooner, and the slapping and counting would begin again.

"Eighty-seven, and high line at that!" said the next man. "I'll

bet that's the only halibut on the Banks, and he's two hundred if

he's an ounce."

The great, flat fish was raised to the deck by means of the

topping haul that swung in the dories.