The difficult job was preparing and cooking them. Barry solved the problem by cutting the fish into fillets and broiling these on the blade of one of the raft’s aluminum oars. Two cans of fuel were used for that one meal.
“We couldn’t be so wasteful, out of sight of land,” Curly Levitt observed. “We’d have to learn to eat our fish raw and like it.”
“Which might not be so hard, after all, sir,” Mickey Rourke responded. “A sailor once told me he’d drifted for three weeks on a big raft with six other lads, and eaten raw fish three times a day. They cut it thin and dried it in the sun, like herring. The sea water had salted it already. Me friend said it tasted fine.”
“Your sailor friend was spinning you a salty yarn, if you ask me,” said Chick. “What did he do when the water rations gave out?”
“Sure, that was easy!” Mickey Rourke replied. “He drank fish with his meals and was never thirsty except when it stormed for three days and the fish wouldn’t bite—”
“Haw, haw, haw!” howled Hap Newton, whose raft had drifted closer. “You bit, all right, Chick. You ought to know better than to match wits with an Irishman. So they drank more fish when they got thirsty, huh! That’s the best joke I’ve heard since I was a dodo. How about it, Barry?”
Barry Blake’s smile was not sympathetic.
“The joke’s on you, Hap!” he chuckled. “Mickey, hand me that fish we didn’t cook, and I’ll show Lieutenant Newton just what sort of a sucker he is to doubt your word.”
From the bottom of the bait can Barry took a folded square of muslin and the sharp edged spearhead. After making criss-cross cuts through each side of the five pound fish, he pulled the diced flesh from the bones and placed them in the cloth.
“Now hold the can under this muslin while we wring out a fresh fish cocktail, Mickey,” he directed.