THE QUARREL.
THE new fishermen could hardly wait to beat up the circle so eager were
they to see what their nets contained.
"I guess we have got all there was in the circle," Charley at last
announced. "Let's start to take up. Fasten your lantern to the end of
an oar and fix it so it will shine down on your net so that you can see
what you are doing, look out for cat fish. I put a short club in each
of the skiffs to-day. If you get a cat fish, kill it before you try to
take it out of your net."
"What kind of looking fish are they?" Walter paused to inquire.
"They are a slimy fish without scales," Charley explained. "They
have a flat head and on each side of the gills and on the back are
needle-sharp horns about three inches long with fine saw teeth along
the edge. When the fish are swimming the horns lay back flat against
the body, but when they strike a net or anything else, they stick the
horns straight out. They are fierce to take out of a net, they will
tangle up dozens of meshes on those horns and the fine twine is hard
to work off the saw edges. It's dangerous to handle them unless they
are killed for they are liable to flop and stick those horns in you
and make a very poisonous wound. Well, let's get to work, the night is
slipping away fast."
With lanterns popped out over the skiff's stern the three set to work.
At first it was exciting to haul in the nets with the struggling
fish entangled in their meshes, and to watch the pile in their boats
steadily grow, but the novelty soon wore off and only the hard work
remained. And hard work it was, harder than either the captain or
Walter had dreamed. A breeze had arisen since sunset and they had to
drag their skiffs up against it as they pulled in their nets. When they
came to a fish they had to hold the net with their feet, while they
bent over under the dim light and freed it from the entangling meshes.
Every now and then they came to a great mass of sea moss caught up in
their nets, which required all their strength to dump out, nor did they
escape painful accidents, although they met with none of the dreaded
cat fish, every fish handled by them seemed armed with sharp fins and
their fingers were soon sore with a multitude of tiny punctures. A
flopping fish flipped a bit of jelly into the captain's eye. It burned
like a touch from a red hot iron, and the old sailor half blinded grew
faint from the intense pain. At last Walter realized what it meant to
handle four hundred yards of net. Before he had got half of his in
the boat he was fairly ready to lie down and cry from pain and sheer
weariness.
Charley, more expert, soon had his net boated and taking hold of the
other end of Walter's helped him with the balance, then rowed over and
performed a like service for the captain. "Let's rest a little bit and
eat our lunch before we start again," he suggested when the nets were
all up. "I'll anchor my boat and you both come alongside and tie up to
me so we can all eat together."
He had brought a box partly filled with sand along in his skiff and in
it he now proceeded to build a small fire on which he boiled coffee and
heated up the lunch Chris had given them. The hot meal and steaming
coffee made his two companions almost forget for a time their pains and
weariness.
"How many do you think we got that time?" Walter inquired, over a
second cup of coffee.
"About twelve hundred pounds of mullet," he judged, "some thirty odd
pounds of trout and about two hundred pounds of bottom fish," say
twenty-eight dollars' worth altogether. "That's pretty fair for one
run. If we can get in four more runs like it before daylight, it will
make a good night's work."
"Four more runs," cried Walter in dismay, all his aches and pains
returning at the thought, "why I don't believe I can last out one more."
"I know it's tough on you two," said Charley sympathetically, "but we
have got to do it. We cannot hope to make money by just making one or
two runs a night. It will not be quite so bad after you get hardened to
it. I know just how you feel. I once fished every night steady for six
months and we made from six to eight runs each night. I was new to the
business then and I thought the first two or three nights that it would
certainly kill me. Tired. Why many a time I've gone sound asleep while
rowing and fallen over into the bottom of the boat amongst the fish
without waking up. Oh, it's tough all right, but you have got to get
used to it."
Walter was silent. He was doing a sum in mental arithmetic, "eight
runs a night. Four hundred yards of net to run out each time and four
hundred yards of net to take in. Eight hundred yards multiplied eight
times was six thousand four hundred yards or over three miles besides
all the endless rowing." Why it was more than flesh and blood could
stand. Was any amount of money worth such nerve and muscle racking
labor? He was still pondering this when his chum gave the order to
start again and they once more fell into the old formation and rowed
silently on into the darkness.
Mile after mile they rowed steadily on until the launch's lanterns
showed only a pin point of light in the distance. The ache in Walter's
muscles grew to an acute pain. Every stroke of the oars was an effort
that seemed impossible to repeat. All around his boat came and went
darting flashes of many fish. Again the old question arose. Why all
this aimless, senseless rowing. He felt a hot unreasoning resentment
against his chum that grew with his deadly weariness and at last flowed
out in speech.
"Charley," he snapped out across the water, "I'm getting sick of this
nonsense. There's fish all around us. Let's either try to catch them or
go home. I'm tired of this rowing, rowing, rowing for nothing."
Charley was silent a moment before replying. Matters had come to the
pass he had feared. He had witnessed the same thing many times with new
beginners. One of two things must happen, either Walter must learn to
have faith in his leadership until he himself had gained experience or
else they must give up fishing. No amount of argument would convince
him like a bit of experience, as the result of having his own way in
something he knew nothing about. It was bitter medicine but it was the
only treatment which would check the disease, however, he decided to
give his chum one last chance.
"I am doing the best I know how, Walt," he answered. "I have to follow
my best judgment in this fishing so long as I am running head boat."
"Judgment nothing," scoffed Walter angrily, "there's no judgment in
rowing our arms off when there are fish all around us."
"All right Old Chap, you can run head boat if you think you can do
better. I'll follow you without question," Charley replied wearily.
"All right, I will," agreed Walter, shortly. "I can promise you I will
not make you row yourself to death for nothing."
In silence Charley changed positions with his chum. They had not
proceeded a hundred yards in the new order when Walter's skiff slid in
amongst the biggest school he had yet seen.
"All right, let's run them," he shouted excitedly.
Charley smiled grimly as he cast him the end of his net to make fast
but he said nothing, and when his chum gave the signal to start he was
off at the word.
"Whew," panted Walter, as they came together at the end of the run,
"we've made a killing this time. Just look at the bright streaks. Why,
the circle is full of fish. Come on, let's drum them up."
"I wouldn't drum any," Charley advised.
"I'm running head boat now," Walter reminded him shortly, "kindly do as
I say."
"All right," his chum agreed, cheerfully, and fell to beating the water
lustily with his oar.
"I guess they are all in the nets now," Walter at last announced.
"Let's pick them up."
Charley rowed back to the end of his net in silence. He grinned with
grim humor as his quick ear caught queer grunting sounds from along
the lines of net. He seized the end of his and pulled it aboard, then
he paused, adjusted his lantern carefully, took a drink of water from
his jug, laid his short club handy on the seat beside him, and settled
himself for a long spell of hard work.
Walter reached for the end of his net, tingling with anticipation. The
first few yards came in empty, then a score of white bellies showed in
the dripping webbing as he hoisted it into the boat. Pride gave way to
dismay. Instead of the clean, glistening mullet he had expected, these
were slimy, flat-headed fish, loathsome to look at, emitting repulsive
grunts and reeking forth a sickening odor. Each was hopelessly tangled
in a mess of webbing. For a moment, he wildly debated the notion of
casting the net back overboard and fleeing. Then he grimly, doggedly,
settled down to work. His thoughts were more unpleasant than the
task before him. He had brought this upon himself and not only upon
himself but upon his companions also. Because he had become a little
tired, he had given way to a fit of temper and made a fool of himself.
Well, Charley and the captain would never want him to fish with them
again, and it served him right, but his heart ached at the thought of
separating from those kind, true, friendly companions after all the
years they had spent together. He paused for a moment and listened.
From the captain's skiff came muttered exclamations as the old sailor
labored over his unwelcome catch. From Charley's boat came only the
sharp, frequent crack of the club as he hauled the detested fish in
over the stern.
Slowly the minutes lengthened into hours and the night dragged away,
while the humbled lad, suffering in every muscle, his fingers bleeding
from a score of scratches, and one hand swelling rapidly where a horn
had entered, worked grimly on. Slowly Charley's light drew away from
him for the other lad's experience had taught him the knack of taking
out fish swiftly.
Once, Walter raised his eyes from his task and looked about. The
morning star had risen in the east and Charley's light had disappeared.
"Got disgusted and gone home," he decided, bitterly. "Well, I don't
blame him."
The day was just breaking when Walter, at last, reached the end of his
net. The captain had escaped lightly and had been through for some
time. He was stretched out on a seat, resting, and placidly smoking his
pipe. The launch was only a short distance away. Charley had rowed back
and was bringing her up to save his chums the long row to her.
"Good morning," Charley hailed, cheerfully, as he shut off the engine,
"all through."
Walter almost shouted with joy. His chum was not angry with him after
all.
Charley ranged alongside and peeped into his skiff.
"What have you saved them all for," he exclaimed, as his eye lighted on
the big pile of fish.
"Why, to sell," Walter faltered.
His chum grinned. "No one buys them. Why you couldn't give them away.
But come, both of you and make fast. We'll just get home in time for
breakfast."
It was a humble and abashed lad that stepped aboard the launch.
"Charley, I've been a fool," he blurted out, "but if you can overlook
it this time, it will not happen again."
"Forget it," said his chum heartily. "I hated it more for your sake
than for my own, but it's all over now. Cheer up, Old Chap."
"How did you know what kind of fish they were?" Walter inquired, after
a brief silence.
"By the streaks. A catfish fires deep below the surface and he only
runs a little ways then stops. A mullet makes a long straight streak
close the surface. But those were not all catfish we rowed through
to-night. There were sharks in one place, a school of porgies in
another, and a lot of sea bass and some fish I could not determine and
was afraid to run."