“Oh no. Try for another fish.”
“Can’t, sir; he’s taken away my lead sinker, and I don’t think we could ketch one on the surface; besides, my line’s too short.”
There was nothing to say to this, so the raft was unmoored again and poled back to its old place with alacrity, made fast, the fish rolled up in some wet seaweed, and then Bostock turned with a grim smile to his young companion.
“Feel no better, sir,” he said.
“No, Bob; if anything, worse.”
“And it aren’t your shoulder?”
“No,” sighed Carey; “I feel faint and sinking. I suppose it was from the shock of the pain.”
“I don’t, sir,” said the old fellow, gruffly. “I know what’s the matter with you.”
“What is it, then?” said Carey, rather anxiously.
“You’ve got the eight bells complaint, sir.”