“Me?” he said. “Me? Why, I was alongside the chap at the wheel.”
“Were you?” said Poole, grinning to himself at the effect of his words. “Then it couldn’t have been you, Butters. Come on and get me the line.”
“Gammon!” growled the boatswain. “You knew it warn’t all the time. Come on.”
He led the way to his locker and took out a couple of square reel-frames with their cord, hooks, and sinkers complete.
“Ketch hold,” he said gruffly, and then giving Poole a tin box which rattled loudly, he growled out, “Plenty of spare hooks in there. But don’t lose more than you can help. Where are you going to fish? Off the taffrail?”
“No; out of the stern-window.”
“What! How are you going to haul in your fish?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“See what a mess you’ll make, my lad.”
“I’ll clean up afterwards,” said Poole.