“Ay,” he said, “if we’d knowed they was there, we might ha’ crep along the rocks and dropped a net acrost, and then caught the lot.”
“Mullet, weren’t they?” said Vince.
“Yes: grey ones,” said Mike, shading his eyes, and following the wave made by the retiring shoal.
“Ay—grey mullet, come up to see if there was anything to eat. Smelt where I’d been cleaning fish and throwing it into the water.”
The boat went on after the shoal of fish, in and out along the great jagged rift leading seaward, their way seeming to be barred by a towering pyramid of rock partly detached from the main island, while the sides of the fault grew higher and higher till they closed in overhead, forming a roughly-arched tunnel, nearly dark; but as soon as they were well in, the light shining through the end and displaying a framed picture of lustrous sea glittering in the sunlight, of which enough was reflected to show that the sides of the tunnel-like cavern were dotted with limpets, and the soft, knob-shaped, contracted forms of sea anemones that, below the surface, would have displayed tentacles of every tint, studded, as it were, with gems.
The roof a few feet above their heads echoed, and every word spoken went whispering along, while the iron point and hook of the implement old Daygo used gave forth a loud, hollow, sounding click as it was struck upon side or roof from time to time.
“I say,” cried Vince suddenly, “we never tried for a conger along here, Mike.”
“No good,” growled Daygo.
“Why?” said Vince, argumentatively. “Looks just the place for them: it’s dark and deep.”
“Ay, so it is, boy; and I daresay there arn’t so many of they mullet gone back to sea as come up the hole.”