So when he had had his tea he took his shark line, and baiting it with half a mullet, threw out astern.
Having passed a loop of the line round an empty kerosene tin, and placed it so that a tug at the bait would upset it and make a row, George filled his pipe and went for’ard to smoke.
After an hour’s lounge the first mate thought he would stroll aft and look at the line.
“I’ll bet,” he said to himself, “that the cursed bream have eaten my bait off.”
He drew in the slack of the line and commenced to haul up. The line tautened.
“Hullo!” cried George, “I’m snagged!”
He pulled steadily.
“No,” he added, “I’ve hooked something. It’s coming up,” he resumed, peering over into the water, “Whatever it is it’s dashed heavy; must be a log, I reckon.”
There was a kerosene lamp on the wharf which threw a dim yellow light over the water astern.
George dragged the line around over the rail so that he would be enabled to see what he was bringing up.