Then all haste was made to get the boat out, in order that they might fish while the tide was right. The boat was a large launch named Red Bird; a boat twenty-four feet long, very broad in the beam, and very stoutly built. It was provided with a mast and sail, but these were of no use now as there was no wind, and the bars on which Ned meant to fish were only a few hundred yards distant.
No sooner was the anchor cast than the lines were out, and the fish began accepting the polite invitation extended to them.
"What sort of fish are these, Ned?" asked Charley, as he took one from his hook.
"That," said Ned, looking round, "is a whiting—so called, I believe, because it is brown, and yellow, and occasionally pink and purple, with changeable silk stripes over it. That's the only reason I can think of for calling it a whiting. It is never white. It isn't properly a whiting for that matter. It isn't at all the same as the whiting of the North, at any rate."
"Why, they're changing color," exclaimed Jack.
"Look! they actually change color under your very eyes."
"Yes, it's a way whiting have," said Ned. "And some other fish do the same thing, I believe."
"Dolphins do," said Charley.
"Yes, but the whiting isn't even a second cousin to the dolphin. That's a croaker you've got, Jack; spot on his tail—splendid fish to eat—and he croaks. Listen!"
The fish did begin to utter a curious croaking sound, which surprised the boys. Other croakers were soon in the boat, and the company of them set up a croaking of which the inhabitants of a frog pond might not have been ashamed.