“Our bo’sun.”
“But what do you mean by his tackle? You don’t suppose that I am going to do any hoisting, or anything of that sort, do you?”
“No, no; fishing-tackle. I’d bait the hooks and throw out the line, and you could fish. You’d feel them tug, and could haul in, and I’d take them off the hook?”
“What fish would they be?” cried the boy, quite eagerly, and with his eyes brightening at the idea.
“Bonito or albicore.”
“What are they?”
“Ah, you have never been in the tropics, I suppose?”
“Never mind where I’ve been,” snapped out the boy. “I asked you what fish those were.”
“Something like big mackerel,” replied Poole quietly, “and wonderfully strong. You would enjoy catching them.”
The way in which these words were spoken touched the midshipman’s dignity.