“O’ course. There. Now I shall just sink that bucket in the clear, cool water so as the soup stuff keeps good. There we are, and those bits o’ clean coral to keep ’em down. Now I washes my hands in that little bit of a rock basin and they aren’t a bit messy; dries ’em in the hot sand, and now what do you say to trying for a bit o’ fish?”
“Capital,” cried Carey, excitedly.
“On’y I tell you what; we’ll tie one end of the line to the raft, so that you can let go if we get hold of a big un. I’m not going to have you hauling and hurting your sore place.”
“That will be all right.”
“No, it won’t, unless you promise you’ll let go if it’s a big un.”
“I promise,” said Carey, “for I don’t believe we shall catch any.”
“Well, there’s something in that,” said the old sailor, “for the number o’ times a man goes fishing and don’t ketch nothing’s a thing to think on.”
Bostock talked a great deal, but he was not like a gardener, who somehow can never answer a question without stopping short; say, if he is digging, driving the spade into the ground, resting one foot upon it, and resting his fist upon the handle. Bob Bostock’s hands were always busy, and while he was chatting about the fish he was picking up a few damaged scraps of shelly oyster, laying them in a shell for bait, and then preparing the line by tying on the lead and a good-sized hook.
“Now then, my lad; ready?” he cried.
“Oh, yes, I’m ready and waiting,” replied the boy. “I say, doesn’t it make you feel in good spirits to be out here? I should like to run and shout.”