“Oh yes, I know,” said the lad coolly, as he gathered in the dripping line in loops once more and again grasped the light ash pole ready for another stroke.
As if perfectly satisfied of their safety, a couple more of the bonitos glided along from following the sloop, and the midshipman made as if to throw, but hesitated and let the first fish glide beneath his feet, but darted the spear down at the second, and struck a little too soon, the swift creature apparently seeing the spear coming and with one wave of its tail darting into safety.
“Bother!” grunted Roberts.
“Third time never fails, sir,” growled the sailor. That sailor told a great untruth, for when for the third time Roberts drove the trident he failed dismally, for in his excitement and hurry he took no care to hold the three-pronged fork so that it should strike the fish across the back, so that one or the other tooth should be driven into the flesh, but held it so that the blades were parallel with the fish’s side, beside which they glided so that the bonito passed on unharmed.
“Oh, hang the thing!” cried the lad.
“Well, strike it first,” said Murray, laughing. “We’ll hang it then if you like.”
“Do it yourself, then,” growled Roberts angrily, hauling up the line and trident, before preparing to loosen the noose from his wrist.
“Nonsense!” cried Murray. “Stop where you are, man. You were in such a hurry, and didn’t half try.”
“No, you come and try. You are so much more handy with the grains than I am.”
He spoke sourly, but his companion’s last words had softened him a little. “Stop where you are, man!” sounded pleasant, and he hesitated.