“We haven’t thought about that yet, Chips.”
“Ah, you aren’t like what I was when I was a boy, Mr Poole, sir. I used to think about it the whole day before, and go to the butcher’s for my maggits, and down the garden for my wums. Of course I never fished in a big way like this ’ere; but I am thinking about a bait. I should like you to have good sport. Means hard work for the Camel to-morrow, I suppose.”
“And to-night too, Chips, I hope,” said Poole.
“That’s right, sir,” said the man cheerily, as he hauled upon the cable. “But what about that bait? I know what would be the right thing; perhaps the skipper mightn’t approve, and not being used to it Mr Burnett here mightn’t like to use such a bait.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose I should mind, Chips,” said Fitz, laughing. “What should you recommend?”
“Well, sir, I should say, have the dinghy and go up the river a mile or two till we could land and catch a nice lively little nigger—one of them very shiny ones. That would be the sort.”
The two lads forgot the seriousness of the mission they had in view, exchanged glances, and began to laugh, with the result that the man turned upon them quite an injured look.
“Oh, it’s quite right, gentlemen; fishes have their fancies and likings for a tasty bit, same as crocodiles has. I arn’t sailed all round the world without picking up a few odds and ends to pack up in my knowledge-box. Why, look at sharks. They don’t care for nigger; it’s too plentiful. But let them catch sight of a leg or a wing of a nice smart white sailor, they’re after it directly. Them crocs too! Only think of a big ugly lizardy-looking creetur boxed up in a skin half rhinoceros, half cow-horn—just fancy him having his fads and fancies! Do you know what the crocodile as lives in the river Nile thinks is the choicest tit-bit he can get hold of?”
“Not I,” said Poole. “Giraffe perhaps.”
“No, sir; what he says is dog, and if he only hears a dog running along the bank yelping and snapping and chy-iking, he’s after him directly, finishes him up, and then goes and lies down in the hot sun with his mouth wide open, and goes to sleep. Ah, you may laugh, sir; but I’ve been up there in one of them barges as they calls darbyers, though how they got hold of such an Irish name as that I don’t know. It was along with a orficer as went up there shooting crocs and pottomhouses. Oh, I’ve seen the crocs there often—lots of them. Do you know what they opens their mouths for when they goes to sleep, Mr Burnett, sir?”