"snapped Uncle Salters, backing water with a splash.
Salters. I came to sea on account of nervous dyspepsia.
He's my uncle, - dad's own brother, - an' ef there's any bad luck loose on the Banks she'll fetch up ag'in' Uncle Salters, sure.
"Pitch!" grunted Uncle Salters, without turning his head, and Harvey pitched the fish by twos and threes down the hatch.
Down below, the rasping sound of rough salt rubbed on rough flesh sounded like the whirring of a grindstone - a steady undertune to the "click-nick" of the knives in the pen; the wrench and schloop of torn heads, dropped liver, and flying offal; the "caraaah" of Uncle Salters's knife scooping away backbones; and the flap of wet, opened bodies falling into the tub.
"Knife oh!" repeated Uncle Salters, waving the flat, curved splitter's weapon.
"Salters, you pitch your fish in naow at once," he said in the tone of authority.
"You an' your nervis dyspepsy be drowned in the Whale-hole," roared Uncle Salters, a fat and tubly little man.
I'm forty-five," said Uncle Salters. "You count keerful, Penn."
"Beat by a farmer, Salters. An' you sech a sailor, too!"