The crew on the dock scrambled up and over
the sides, flung down boxes, buckets, anything and scooped the fish from
the sea.
The diversion saved the Englishman from any bellicose intention of the
mate, who hurried off to take a hand in the sport. Madden sat on his
platform watching the fun, for it was a remarkable sight. Caradoc swung
around on the ladder facing Leonard.
"There, Madden," he cried, "is a sight characteristic of no other sea.
Every season Cornish fisheries capture millions of these fish. They
pickle 'em, can 'em. They even sell them to you Yankees for sardines.
You are fortunate to have seen this phenomenon."
Leonard studied the novel sight. Hundreds of fishing smacks converged on
the area where the pilchards were breaking, their red sails glowing
warmly against the green of the land and the blue of the sea. Gulls
whirled about the tall dock, filling the air with thin creakings. Madden
admired the sudden picturesque activity. Some of the smacks were so
close now that he could see their long trawls stringing out behind, and
little figures running about their decks, winding in nets, bringing in a
flood of silver fishes.
The metallic noise of the gulls grew so loud as to blanket all else. In
the midst of this fluttering and shrieking, Leonard heard the shouting
of human voices.
Pages:
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34