“That’s right. There, tighten the line again. I want to see you get one of those big ones, and you are not going to be beaten.”
“But I’m not skilful over it, Frank,” said Roberts.
“Be skilful, then, my lad. It’s just the knack of it, that’s all. Get that, and you’ll hit one every time. Won’t he, Tom?”
“Yes, sir. It’s just the knack; that’s all. Just look down, sir; there’s no end of thumpers coming along, and if you wait your time, sir, you’re sure to have one.”
Roberts knit his brows as he gazed down beneath him at the shadow-like fish, which now looked dark, now reflected golden and greenish tints from their burnished sides, and once more prepared to strike; but he hesitated, and the bonito was gone.
“Here, you’re nervous, Dick,” cried Murray. “You’re too anxious and want to make too sure. Be sharper and more careless. Just measure the distance as the next one comes along, make sure of him and let drive.”
Roberts said nothing, but set his teeth hard as he balanced the ash pole in his hand, being careful to hold the spear so that the prongs were level with the
horizon, and was in the act of driving the implement down when Murray whispered hoarsely—“Now then!”
That interruption proved to be just sufficient to throw the lad off his aim, and once more he missed. “My fault, Dick; my fault, Tom. I put him out,” cried Murray excitedly.