“All right,” replied the lad, who at the first touch of the three-pronged spear forgot all his sham resistance and settled himself in an easy position with his left arm round one of the staying ropes, standing well balanced and ready to dart the implement down into one of the great beautifully-marked mackerel-natured fish, which with an easy stroke of its thin tail, shaped like a two-day-old moon, darted along the side, played round the sloop’s stem, plunged beneath the keel and appeared again, to repeat its manoeuvres so rapidly that its coming and going resembled flashes of light.
“I’ll have one directly,” said Roberts, after letting two or three chances go by, “and you, Tom, when I spear one and haul him up, you take hold of the fish just forward of his tail, where you can grip him easily.”
“Close up to his flukes, sir?” said the man, cocking one eye at Murray with a droll look which suggested the saying about instructing your grandmother. “All right, sir; I’ll take care.”
“Yes, you’d better!” said the midshipman, who was now all eagerness. “I’ll spear one, Frank, and then you shall take the next turn.”
“No, no; get a couple first, old chap,” replied Murray, “or say three. We don’t want to change too often.”
“Oh, very well, just as you like. Ha!”
For a chance had offered itself; one of the bonitos had risen towards the surface and turned sharply preparatory to swimming back to pass round the stem of the Seafowl, and Roberts plunged down his spear; but he had not been quick enough.
“My word, that was near! Eh, Tom?” cried Murray.
“Near as a toucher,” grunted the sailor, with his eyes twinkling.
“Never mind, Dick; you’ll do it next time. Straight down, old chap; but you must allow for the water’s refraction.”