Chapter Twelve.
The Catching of many Fish, and the Getting Caught themselves.
It was a glorious evening, the aspect of the bay being grand, lit up as it was by the golden light of the setting sun. Distant windows glowed like fire; the rugged Cornish hills were like amber; and sea and sky were gorgeous with brilliant hues.
“Oh! I do like this!” cried Dick. “I wish poor old—but you will bring him next time. Now, then, what shall I do?”
“Sit still,” said Josh gruffly, “and see him pay out the line.”
Dick felt snubbed; but on glancing at Will he was met by a friendly nod as the lad busied himself in making fast one end of the line, coiled up in the basket, to the buoy-rope, and then, as Josh took both oars, fixed his eyes upon a point on land, and began to row slowly due south, Will let the line run over the side.
It was no easy task, and it required co-operation on the part of him at the oars, for every now and then, in spite of the care with which the line had been coiled, and the hooks regularly baited and laid in place, there would be a disposition to kink, and for hooks to catch and go down tangled with each other. But Josh always had an eye for this, and was ready to ease the boat’s progress, or in a bad case to back water, while Will’s quick clever fingers pounced upon every hitch, shook out the line, and sent it down fathom after fathom with its hooks and baits clear to lie upon the bottom.
“Shall I—shall I hinder you if I talk?” said Dick at last, when about half the line was out.