The captive made some bold dashes for liberty, but in vain, and a minute had not elapsed before it was lifted on to the raft, proving to be a fish of four or five pounds’ weight, in dazzlingly beautiful armour of silver and steel-like blue, one which needed handling carefully on account of an exceedingly sharp saw-like back fin, which was stroked carefully down before Bostock extracted the hook.
“Looks as if he ought to be good to eat, sir.”
“It’s a beauty,” cried Carey, excitedly.
“I dunno,” said Bostock, stolidly, as he rebaited the hook.
“Nonsense; look at the silver and pearl and steel-blue on its sides.”
“Ah, but some of these furren fish are poisonous, sir.”
“I was thinking about its beauty,” said Carey, impatiently.
“Was you, sir? I was thinking about the frying-pan. He’d be all we should want, but we’d better try for another in case the doctor thinks this one not good to eat.”
“Oh, yes, try for some more. I wish Doctor Kingsmead were here, though, to help. I wonder where he is now.”
“Ay. Wonder how he’s getting on, and what he has found. There, if that isn’t a tempting bait, don’t know what is. Line all free?”