What followed was almost instantaneous. Poole made two fresh grips at the line, pulled hard, and then with an ejaculation fell backwards on to the deck with the hooks upon his chest.
“Gone!” groaned Fitz; but his exclamation was drowned in a roar of laughter from the men, and a peculiar flapping, splashing noise caused by the fish, in which the gaff had taken a good hold, bending itself into the shape of a half-moon as it was hauled over the side, giving the man saluted as Chips a violent blow with its tail, and then as it flopped down upon the deck slapping the planks with sounding blow after blow.
Following directly upon the laughter there was a loud cheer, and in the midst of his excitement at the triumphant capture, Fitz heard the mate’s voice—
“Well done, Mr Burnett! That’s about the finest bonito I ever saw. I thought you’d lost him, Chips.”
“Nay, sir; I’d got my hook into him too tight; but it was touch and go.”
“Yes, that’s a fine one,” said Poole, taking hold of the detached hook and drawing the captive round in front of Fitz’s chair.
“Yes,” replied the boy, who sat back wiping his brow; “but it isn’t so big as I expected to see.”
“Oh, he’s pretty big,” said the mate—“thick and solid and heavy; and those fellows have got such tremendous strength in those thin half-moon tails. They are like steel. Going to try for any more?”
The mate looked at Fitz as he spoke.
“It’s very exciting,” he said, rather faintly, “but I am afraid I am too tired now.”