“There,” cried Poole; “now I think we might have him in. I was afraid to haul before for fear of dragging the hook out of its jaws. Look at that now!” he cried impatiently.
“What’s the matter? Don’t say he has gone!”
“Oh no, he’s not gone. Why, he is making a fresh dash for his liberty. But we can’t lift him in by the hook, and I never thought about getting a gaff.—Here, hi!” he cried. “Come here, Chips!”
One of the sailors sidled up—a dry-looking, quaint man with a wrinkled face, who broke out into a smile as he saw what was going on.
“Fish, sir?” he said, and his hand made a movement toward his cap. “Want me to fetch my bag of tools?”
“Yes,” cried Poole. “I mean, get that long-handled gaff from down below.”
“Right, sir,” and the man trotted off, leaving the two lads slowly and steadily hauling in yard after yard of the line.
“Still fast on, sir?” cried the man to Fitz, as he stood what looked like a highly-educated boat-hook against the rail.
Fitz made no reply, for his face was flushed and his teeth hard set in the excitement of his task.
“Oh yes, we’ve got him fast enough, Chips,” said Poole. “Be very careful, for he’s a heavy one, and Mr Burnett here wouldn’t like to lose him now.”