At last, after a most interesting examination of the different captures, the net was declared and proved to be empty, the damaged fish it contained being thrown out upon the sands, where the waves of the flowing tide kept curling over them, and sweeping the refuse away, to be snapped up by the shoals of hungry fish that came up the bay, the thousands that had been captured that morning being as nothing in the immensity of the ocean population.
“Home?” said Dick suddenly, as Mr Temple said something about going. “Of course. Why, we haven’t had our dinner!”
“What is for dinner, I wonder?” said Arthur.
“For one thing, fish,” said Mr Temple, “for your friend Will went to the inn an hour ago with a basket of the best; so let’s go and see if they are done.”
Chapter Twenty One.
Mr Arthur Temple is not in the least alarmed.
“Father,” cried Dick, bursting into the room where Mr Temple was busy with weights, scales, test-tubes, a lamp, and blow-pipe, trying the quality of some metals—“father, here’s Will Marion and Mr Marion’s man Josh come to see if we’d like to go with them to-night conger-fishing.”
“To-night?”