When Clancy dropped down for his usual mug-up before going to the mast-head for the night of course, he wasn't going to let that get by without having a word to say about it. He leaned against the foremast and took a look around. "My soul, but it's as if the blessed angels were fanning their wings over this forehold. There's Brian Boru and Lord Salisbury there double-banked on the same locker, and nothing doing on any Irish question. There's the lad that sleeps in the peak and not a single hallelujah of praise for his darling Lucille. The other one--the wild man that sings the Bobbie Burns songs--not a shriek out of him. And Bill and John no longer spoiling their eyesight on bad print. I expect it's that little school of fish--the first in two weeks or more. The prospect must be making you all pleased. Well, it ought. A few hundred barrels of that kind of mackerel--as fine fish as ever I see bailed over the rail. And some of you ready reck'ners ought to easily figure up what'll be coming to us if we ever fill her up--say five hundred barrels. A good thing--a few hundred barrels of mackerel. A few too many of 'em for good trim, but it's comforting to know they're there. She seemed to be in pretty nice trim when we tried out one or two of the fleet this morning, didn't she? And to-night, if it breezes up--and it looks now as if it will--we'll get some more--if it's a night like last night. One time there last night--did you notice her, cook?--that time that crazy lad started to cross our bow and we luffed her. Why, man, she shot over like I don't know what--just shot like one of those torpedo boats we see around when the Navy goes evoluting. I was near shook overboard from aloft. They tell me they're going crazy over the race in Gloucester. Well, here's one that'll bet his summer's earnings----" "What's left of it, you mean, Tommie," said George Moore from his pan of dough.