“Oh, I don’t want to have anything to do with it,” grumbled Roberts.
But his companion paid no heed to his words, for just then Tom May, who had been watching their proceedings as he waited until the permission had been obtained, stepped out to meet them, armed with the trident-like grains and fine line, looking like a modern Neptune civilised into wearing the easy-looking comfortable garb of a man-o’-war’s man, and offered the light lissome staff to Murray.
“No, no,” cried the lad. “Mr Roberts is going to have the first turn.”
“I told you I didn’t—” began Roberts, with far less emphasis, but Murray interrupted him.
“Best from the fore chains, won’t it, Tom?”
“Yes, sir. Hold on with the left fin and strike with the right.”
“Yes, of course. Now then, Dick, over with you; and don’t go overboard, or I shall have to come after you.”
“Better let me make a slip-knot for you, sir,” said the man, “so as you don’t lose your line and the grains at the same time.”
The midshipman’s lips parted for him to make another protest—a very faint one—but before he had spoken a word the sailor threw a running noose over his wrist, and, unable to resist the temptation of playing the part of harpooner of the good-sized fish that were playing in the clear water not far below the surface, he climbed over the bulwark and took his place in the chains outside the blocks which secured the shrouds, gathered the line in loops, and grasped the shaft of the long light implement, which somewhat resembled a delicately made eel spear, and stood ready to plunge it down into the first of the swiftly gliding fish which played about the side.
“I say, Dick,” cried Murray eagerly, “don’t be in too great a hurry. Wait till you get a good chance at a big one.”