“We fished the Farm Yard,” Tumm continued, “an’ Indian Harbor, an’ beat south into Domino Run; but we didn’t get no chance t’ use a pound o’ salt for all that. They didn’t seem t’ be no sign o’ fish anywheres on the s’uth’ard or middle coast o’ the Labrador. We run here,’ an’ we beat there, an’ we fluttered around like a half-shot gull; but we didn’t come up with no fish. Down went the trap, an’ up she come: not even a lumpfish or a lobser t’ grace the labor. Winds in the east, lop on the sea, fog in the sky, ice in the water, colds on the chest, boils on the wrists; but nar’ a fish in the hold! It drove Mad Bill Likely stark. ‘Lads,’ says he, ‘the fish is north o’ Mugford. I’m goin’ down,’ says he, ‘if we haves t’ winter at Chidley on swile-fat an’ sea-weed. For,’ says he, ‘Butt o’ Twillingate, which owns this craft, an’ has outfitted every man o’ this crew, is on his last legs, an’ I’d rather face the Lord in a black shroud o’ sin than tie up t’ the old man’s wharf with a empty hold. For the Lord is used to it,’ says he, ‘an’ wouldn’t mind; but Old Man Butt would _cry_.’ So we ’lowed we’d stand by, whatever come of it; an’ down north we went, late in the season, with a rippin’ wind astern. An’ we found the fish ’long about Kidalick; an’ we went at it, night an’ day, an’ loaded in a fortnight. ‘An’ now, lads,’ says Mad Bill Likely, when the decks was awash, ‘you can all go t’ sleep, an’ be jiggered t’ you!’ An’ down I dropped on the last stack o’ green cod, an’ slep’ for more hours than I dast tell you. “Then we started south. “‘Tumm,’ says Botch, when we was well underway, ‘we’re deep. We’re awful deep.’ “‘But it ain’t salt,’ says I; ‘’tis fish.’ “‘Ay,’ says he; ‘but ’tis all the same t’ the schooner. We’ll have wind, an’ she’ll complain.’ “We coaxed her from harbor t’ harbor so far as Indian Tickle. Then we got a fair wind, an’ Mad Bill Likely ’lowed he’d make a run for it t’ the northern ports o’ the French Shore. We was well out an’ doin’ well when the wind switched t’ the sou’east. ’Twas a beat, then; an’ the poor old _Three Sisters_ didn’t like it, an’ got tired, an’ wanted t’ give up. By dawn the seas was comin’ over the bow at will. The old girl simply couldn’t keep her head up. She’d dive, an’ nose in, an’ get smothered; an’ she shook her head so pitiful that Mad Bill Likely ’lowed he’d ease her for’ard, an’ see how she’d like it. ’Twas broad day when he sent me an’ Abraham Botch o’ Jug Cove out t’ stow the stays’l. They wasn’t no fog on the face o’ the sea; but the sky was gray an’ troubled, an’ the sea was a wrathful black-an’-white, an’ the rain, whippin’ past, stung what it touched, an’ froze t’ the deck an’ riggin’. I knowed she’d put her nose into the big white seas, an’ I knowed Botch an’ me would go under, an’ I knowed the foothold was slippery with ice; so I called the fac’s t’ Botch’s attention, an’ asked un not t’ think too much. “‘I’ve give that up,’ says he. “‘Well,’ says I, ‘you might get another attackt.’