“Hinder! No,” cried Will; “talk away.”
“Why didn’t you put the line down there where we caught that beautiful—what was it—pollack?”
“Because the bottom was all rocks, and we should have lost the line. Besides, it isn’t a good place for long-line fish.”
“Oh!” said Dick; and he was silent, watching the line go over, and the baits seem to dart down through the dark clear water and disappear, while Josh rowed on and on, with his eyes now on the line-basket, now on the land, his forehead wrinkled, and his countenance as solemn as if this were the most serious venture of his life.
And what a wonderful sight it was! The waters of that great bay turning to topaz, and then to ruby, as if the oars were plashing up wine, which bubbled and foamed as the boat went slowly on, while close down in the shadow, where Will lowered the line, all was of a dark transparent slate.
Down went bait after bait, coil after coil of the line, till the uneven rings in the basket grew fewer—fewer still—then there were only three or four—two—one.
“Avast!” shouted Josh, throwing in his oars and dropping another little grapnel anchor overboard, which ran out so much rope. Then a little tub buoy was passed after it, and Josh held on by the ring, while Will fastened the line to the rope, dropped it, and as the last bait rested on the bottom, turned with satisfied face to the visitor.
“There!” he said; “that’s done.”
“But you did not tell me why you came here to lay the line,” said Dick.
“’Cause it’s a good place,” growled Josh.