“Will not these places be very offensive when they dry and the fish die?” said Drew, quickly.
“No, sir, the crocs won’t leave any fish to die, and before long they’ll begin travelling down to the sea.”
The shore was reached at last, and all eagerly laid the cocoa-nuts under contribution, the cool, sub-acid milk being most refreshing. Then the boat was run down over the sand by the sailors, launched, and they put off across the calm lagoon, only pausing twice for a few of the soft molluscs to be fished up to act as bait.
A quarter of an hour later the boat was made fast to a mass of coral upon a bare patch of fairly level rock some fifty feet across. It was close to an opening in the reef, where the tide came rushing in and the water was roughened and disturbed, beside possessing the advantage for the fisherman of going down at once quite deep, where they could throw out their lines right into the opening.
Three of these were soon rigged up and baited by the men, Smith devoting himself to Oliver Lane, who stood ready to throw out his lead sinker.
“Aren’t you going to fish too, Mr Rammer?” he asked.
“Not if you can get any, my lad; I’m going to lash this big shark hook on to the end of a long pole and gaff all you catch.”
Oliver laughed.
“You don’t expect that I’m going to catch anything big enough for you to want a hook like that to haul it out?”
“Why not? We haven’t come to catch sprats, sir. Strikes me that if the fish bite, you’ll find you get hold of some thumpers. I’ve fished in these waters before, and I remember what sort of sport I had out in Fiji. Ready?”