“Beaks, Bob,” said Carey, laughing.
“Smellers, then, my lad. Well, they can’t get at the soup meat in the bucket, and they only clean the shells, so we’ll let ’em alone. Now then, up you come.”
The next minute Bostock was wading out to the raft with Carey in his arms, after which he poled their clumsy craft out to the end of the two coral ridges which formed the little canal.
As soon as he had made fast, the hook was carefully baited, the line laid in rings with one end fastened to a plank, and with a gentle swing the lead thrown out into a clear spot, to fall with a splash in the smooth water, forming rings which ever widened as they glided away.
“I wonder whether there are any fish there,” said Carey, and then he started in astonishment, for there was quite a little wave raised as, with a rush, a shoal of fish made for the bait.
“Got him?” cried Bostock, as there was a tug at the line.
“Yes—no—no—yes,” panted Carey, and there was a heavy pull as a fish made for the open water, its actions sending its companions flying out of the water, some even leaping out and falling back with a splash.
Carey held on, but with a sudden quick action Bostock caught hold of the line behind the boy’s hand.
“Oh, Bob!” cried the lad, appealingly.
“Too heavy for you alone, sir. ’Sides, you’ve only got one hand to work with. You go on, sir; I’m on’y easing it for you, and you know you couldn’t haul him in yourself. That’s the way; don’t let him run. Now then, in with him, and think you’re a three-handed man.”