“Then we can give up,” said Jack with a sigh of relief.
“Give up? No, that will never do. If we could only catch one fish, we could use it to cut up for bait.”
“Ugh! the cannibals,” cried Jack.
“Yes, plenty of fish are; but as we haven’t one, and don’t seem as if we can catch one, I’ll go below and see if the cook can help me to a bit of pork skin to cut into a bait or two.”
He made his line fast and went forward, while, standing now in the shadow cast by the great sail behind him, Jack held the line in a quiet listless way, gazing at the distant mountains and wondering at the beauty of the colour with which they glowed in the pure air. He felt calm and restful, and the soft sensuous warmth of the wind was pleasant. It was restful too this gliding over the sea, with the yacht gently rising and falling and careening over to the breeze. The trouble of the days to come seemed farther off, and for a few moments the germs of a kind of wonderment that he should have looked upon this voyage as a trouble began to grow in his mind.
Then he was roused from his pleasant musings as if by an electric shock attended by pain. The line he had coiled round his hand suddenly tightened with a jerk which wrenched at his shoulder and cut into his fingers, and he uttered a shout for help which made the man at the wheel turn to look. A big black-haired fellow, who was busy with a marline-spike and a piece of rope, dropped both and ran to the lad’s help, but not before he had brought his left hand up to help his right, taking hold of the fishing-line and holding on with the feeling that the next minute he would be dragged overboard, but too proud to loose his hold all the same.
“Got him, sir?” said the sailor. “I’ve got something,” panted Jack. “It’s horribly strong.”
“They are in here. Let him go.”
“What!” cried Jack indignantly; “certainly not.”
“I don’t mean altogether, sir. Let him run, or the hook will break out.”