“Follow my example,” said Oliver quietly. “I have one now, a heavy one, too. Nothing like the first I got hold of though,” he continued as he hauled away. “But it’s a fine fellow.”
“Haul in as quickly as you can,” said the mate. “Don’t lose this one.”
“Just what I am doing,” said Oliver between his teeth, as he hauled away rapidly, and soon had the head of another of the silvery fishes above water. “Now, Smith, be ready. Eh? Well, you, Mr Rimmer, with that hook. Now then, gaff him.”
“Gaffed,” said the mate, for instantaneously there was another rush in the water, a splash, and Oliver drew out the head of his prize, the rest having been bitten off as cleanly as a pair of scissors would go through a sprat, just below its gills.
The young man turned a comically chagrined face to his unfortunate companions.
“I say, this is fishing with a vengeance,” cried Panton.
“Starvation sport,” said the mate.
“Tommy, old lad,” whispered Wriggs, “I have gone fishing as a boy, and ketched all manner o’ things, heels, gudgeons, roach and dace, and one day I ketched a ’normous jack, as weighed almost a pound. I ketched him with a wurrum, I did, but I never seed no fishing like this here.”
“Nobody never said you did, mate,” growled Smith.
“Well, we did not come here to catch fish for the big ones to eat,” said the mate. “Have another try, and you must be sharper. Look here, Mr Lane—No, no, don’t take that head off,” he cried, “that will make a splendid bait. Throw it in as it is.”