“Grey mullet, nearly as long as your arm!” said Will.
“Got a line? Oh, I wish I had my fishing-rod! Let’s try for them.”
“No use,” said Will; “they very seldom take a bait. I don’t like them; they’re nasty fish. They come up to feed off the mouth of that dirty drain.”
“We’ll ketch something better than them as soon as we get outside,” said Josh, bending to his oar, Will following suit, and the water began to rattle under the blunt bow of the heavy boat as they sent it speedily along.
“What are all those little tubs for?” said Dick as they threaded their way amongst a number lying a short distance outside the harbour. “Buoys?”
“Yes,” said Will; “anchor buoys, to make fast the luggers to when they have been out fishing, and are coming into the harbour in fine weather.”
They were now leaving the village behind, and it looked like a panoramic picture lit up by the sinking sun, with the tall cliff to left and right, and the hills rising in a steep slope behind. Eight away over the bay the rippling water was stained with the reflection of the western sky, and the sides of the waves glistened with orange, and blue, and gold.
“Oh, you are lucky to live down here!” cried Dick, who was in ecstasies with the beauty of the scene. “I say, though, I wish we’d brought poor old Taff!”
“We’ll bring him another time,” said Will smiling.
“Will you?” cried Dick joyfully. “Oh, then, I don’t mind.”