Then the nets were hauled. It was Danny Fayle's duty to lead the warp through a snatch-block fixed to the mast-hole on to the capstan. Davy Cain disconnected the nets from the warps, and Tommy Tear and Mark Crennel pulled the nets over the gunwale. They came up, white in the moonlight, as a solid block of fish. Bill Kisseck and Christian passed the nets over the scudding pole and shook the herrings into the hold.
"Five barrels at least," said Kisseck. "Try again." And once more the nets were shot. The other boats of the fleet were signaled that the Ben-my-Chree had discovered a scale of fish. The blue light was answered by other blue lights on every side. The fishing was faring well.
One, two, three o'clock. The night was wearing on. The moon went out once more, and in the darkness that preceded the dawn the lanterns burning on the drifting boats gave out an eerie glow. At last the gray light came in the east, and the sun rose over the land. The breeze was now fresh, and it was time to haul in the nets for the last time.
In accordance with ancient custom, the admiral's flag went up to the mast-head, and at this sign every man in the fleet dropped on one knee, with his face in his cap, to offer his silent thanksgiving for the blessings of the season.
"Tumble up the sheets—bear a hand there—d——the lad—gerr out of the way."
In five minutes the lugger was running home before a stiff breeze.
