Travellers tell us how the natives of some far-off islands dive into the sea and do battle with sharks; but no boy ever lived who could dive into a pool and catch a prawn in his native element—at least I never knew one who could, and we were going to give it up after a few frantic thrusts with our nets, when an idea occurred to me.
“Here, I know!” I cried. “Let’s bale out the little low hole, and that will empty the big one.”
“To be sure,” cried Bob. “Go it! But we’ve got nothing to bale with.”
“Big’s shoes,” I cried as I caught sight of them hanging from his neck, tied together by their thongs, and each with a knitted worsted stocking plugging up the toes.
Big made not the slightest objection, but laughed as he pulled out his stockings and thrust them into his breeches’ pockets.
The next minute he and I were scooping out the water at a tremendous rate, making quite a stream flow down from the upper part under the rock, and it soon became evident that in less than an hour both would be dry.
We worked away till I was tired and gave place to Bob Chowne, Bigley all the while working away and sending out great shoefuls over the lower edge of the rocks.
I sat down to rest, and as I watched where the water fell I suddenly made a dart at something thrown out, but it only proved to be a prickly weaver.
Five minutes later, though, Big threw out a prawn which had come down with the current, and this encouraged him to work harder, but Bob began to be tired, and he showed it by sending a shoeful of water at me, making me shout, “Leave off!”
Then he sent one flying over Bigley, who only laughed and worked on for a few moments till Bob was not looking, and then sent a shower back.