He gave the boy a knowing look, and took a roll of long stout line out of one pocket, a leaden weight and a cork stuck full of fish-hooks out of the other.
“Fishing-tackle,” cried Carey, eagerly.
“That’s right. When we’ve got some oysters for bait we’ll get out on the raft again, shove her off to the end of that bit of a canal, and try after a fish.”
“Oh, we’re not going to be dull,” cried Carey, eagerly.
“Dull, not us; why, it’ll be six hours before we know where we are. Come on.”
The old sailor went back to the nearest spot to the raft, carefully examined the rope, which was fastened round a block of coral, and then waded out to the rough construction and returned with the bucket and a small axe.
“Now then,” he said; “you keep here where it’s dry, and I’ll go and see what I can find.”
He had little seeking to do, merely to wade amongst the fragments of coral and pick up pair after pair of the great molluscs, which he had no difficulty in detaching; and before long he had a score, which he carried to a spot on the rock which seemed suitable.
“You feel what a weight they are,” he said, and Carey took up a couple which were about the size of pudding plates.
“They are heavy,” cried Carey. “Why, you could soon collect a ton.”