"He's goin' to be fine angler, all right," he said. "Major Dare, if zat tuna's over a hundred, ze boy ought to get ze button. Zat's ze right rod an' line an' it was caught accordin' to ze rules of ze club."
"Could I really get a button?" asked Colin excitedly, the very thought driving away the last remnants of his attack of weakness. "Is it really a tuna? And is it over a hundred pounds?"
"It's a tuna without question," his father answered, "but I'm not so sure about the weight. If Vincente says it is, he's likely to be right."
"Near one hundred and ten, I t'ink," the boatman answered, "an' I'm sure over one hundred. 'Bout one hundred, six or seven, I should t'ink."
"Do you want to put out the line again, Colin?" his father asked.
"Thank you, I've had enough for one day," the boy replied. "Let's see you get one, Father!"
It was a great delight to lie back on the seat with
the consciousness of a great feat achieved, to watch the gulls and sea-birds overhead and the flying-fish skimming the rippling sea. Major Dare had excellent sport with a couple of yellowtail—one of which was played fifty minutes and the other thirty-five—but the honors of the day rested with Colin. It was nearly noon as the little launch came up to the pier, and the sun was burning hot, but there were a score of loungers on the beach to welcome them.
"Any luck, Vincente?" called a friendly boatman, as the little craft sped by.
"Good luck," was the reply. "Boy got a hundred-pounder!"