“Oh—oh!” groaned Carey, giving utterance to that sound so full of disappointment peculiar to fishermen.
“Ay, ’tis a pity, sir,” said Bostock, “such a fine fish too. Reg’lar golden-red.”
“Yes; what was it?”
“Can’t say, sir. I don’t think,” he added, with a grim smile, “that it was a red herring.”
“But you should have let it run.”
“Didn’t want it, sir; he took the bit in his teeth, and he has run.”
“I mean eased it and wearied it out.”
“Yes, sir, I s’pose so; but I aren’t big at fishing. Wait a bit, and you’ll have your turn. How’s your shoulder?”
“Oh, that does not hurt now, but I do feel rather queer.”
“No wonder,” said the old sailor, looking at the boy searchingly as he ringed up the remainder of the fishing-line. “Let’s get ashore.”