“Yes,” said Lane, who had just covered his hook with the tough mussel-like mollusc he had drawn out of a shell.
“Throw in just out yonder, then, right in the opening of the reef where the waves come in.”
Oliver gave his lead a swing and brought it heavily in contact with Smith’s head.
“That aren’t fish, sir, that’s foul,” grumbled the man.
“I beg your pardon, Smith,” cried Oliver, confusedly.
“My fault p’raps, sir. Try again. All right: line’s laid in rings so that it’ll run out.”
Oliver gave the lead another swing and loosed it with so good an aim that it fell twenty yards away right in the swift current rushing through the opening in the reef.
“First in,” he cried. “Look sharp, you two.”
“Mind, sir, quick!” cried Smith, as the line began to run out rapidly, and the man seized the end so as to check it.
“Precious deep,” said Oliver, catching at the line in turn, and in an instant feeling a ring tighten round and cut into his wrist. “Why I’ve hooked one already—a monster. Here, Smith, come and pull.”