His father looked at him with a twinkle in his eye.
"How the deuce did you know I was out here?" he asked; "I thought the steamer was only just about due."
"I saw you as we came into the harbor," Colin answered, "and I yelled loud enough to be heard 'way back in Los Angeles, but you didn't pay any attention."
"I thought I heard some one shouting a while back," his father said, "but I was busy then and didn't have time to see who it was."
"How big is the tuna, do you think?"
"Not big enough to be listed. About eighty-five, I should say. What about it, Vincente?"
"Little more," the boatman said; "I think perhaps ninety."
"Nothing of a record, you see, Colin," his father said, "just a good morning's sport. But I want to hear all about your doings. It seems to me that you're developing into quite a sensational
person with your fights with whales, and your sea-serpents, and all the rest of it. You've been writing good letters, too, my boy. I'm glad to see that you make use of your eyes when you're in strange places. Tell me how you got to Astoria, I didn't quite follow that salmon business."
Colin started his yarn, but was only fairly launched into it when they arrived at the wharf. There quite a crowd had gathered to welcome the incoming boat, for a big tuna catch always arouses interest in Avalon, and one of its features is the manner in which it is regarded as a personal triumph for the angler. The promenaders gather to see the prize weighed by the officials of the club, and it is rare that the customary photograph of fish, angler, and gaffer is omitted. As for Colin, he was as proud over the fish he had seen caught as though he had held the rod himself.