“But it’s a turbot,” said Dick excitedly. “Why, you don’t catch turbots here, and like this?”
“Seems as if we did,” said Will laughing, “when we can. We don’t often have a bit of luck like this. He’s worth seven or eight shillings.”
“My father will buy it,” cried Dick. “I say, let him have it.”
“Oh, he shall have it if he likes,” cried Will, as the turbot was thrown into the basket to set the skate flapping, and the gurnards curling their heads round towards their tails like cleaned whiting, and a regular scuffle took place.
Meanwhile the boat was forced on beneath the line and a whiting and a couple of small plaice were taken off. Then more bait had disappeared, and then the last hook was being hauled up when Will snatched at the hook, made a sharp stroke with it, twisted it round, and held it under water for a minute before dragging out a nasty grey-looking bag, all tentacles, and with a couple of ugly eyes, which dropped from the hook as Will gave it a twist.
“Cuttle-fish,” he said. “Did you see him squirt out his ink?”
“And make that cloud in the water?” said Dick. “Yes, I saw.”
This curious object with its suckers took his attention as they rowed back once more to the first buoy, where once more the line was overrun, the first fish caught being a dog-fish—a long, thin, sharky-looking creature, with its mouth right underneath and back from its snout, and its tail not like that of an ordinary fish, but unequal in the fork, that is to say, with a little lobe and a very large one.
“Game’s over,” said Josh. “Let’s go back and get in the buoy and creeper.”
“Yes,” assented Will; “it’s of no more use to-night.”