The line continued to run out until Mr. Morgan, by rowing against the tide, brought the boat relatively to a standstill. Then the line stopped as if anchored to something below, twitching indeed from the current, but not giving the thrilling chucks and snatches for which the boy was hoping.
“Oh, blow!” he cried, disgustedly. “It’s not a fish. We’ve got a stone or some seaweed. See, this one caught it, too.”
He dropped the line he was holding and pulled in the other. Its hooks were missing.
“See,” he repeated. “What did I tell you? We shall probably lose the hooks of this one, too. It’s caught fast.”
“Steady, old man. Take the oars and let me feel it.”
Mr. Morgan moved into the stern and pulled the resisting line, but without effect.
“Rather curious this,” he said. “All this stretch is sand. I once saw it uncovered at very low springs. Keep rowing till I feel round the thing with the grappling and see if I can find out what it is.”
Evan passed the small three-pronged anchor aft and his father let it down beside the line. Soon it touched bottom.
“About three and a half fathoms—say twenty feet,” Mr. Morgan remarked. “Keep her steady while I feel about.”
He raised the grappling and, moving it a few inches to one side, lowered it again. Four times it went down to the same depth; on the fifth trial it stopped three feet short.