He laid in the oar, and taking the boat-hook had no difficulty in taking hold of the coral, which was only a couple of feet below, and Mark made his first cast right into the running current.
It was a good throw, and he stooped down and picked up the loose rings, to lay them out quite neatly and wind some of the superabundant line about the little frame, when there was a whiz over the side, the line darted out, there was a painful sensation of cutting, a jerk at the lad’s arm as if it were about to be dragged out of the socket, and—that was all!
“Well, you hooked him,” said Small grimly. “He must have been a big un.”
“Big?—a monster!” cried Mark excitedly. “He must have broken the line.”
“Haul in and bait again,” said Small; and as the line was drawn in it was found that there was no breakage, but the soft metal hook had bent out nearly straight and torn from the fish’s mouth.
“It hurt my hand horribly,” said Mark as he bent the damaged hook back into position; “but it must have hurt the fish more.”
“Sarve him right, my lad!—he was on his way to kill and eat some other fish. That’s it. Chuck out again, and this time let him have it easy, and if he’s a big one give him time.”
The carefully-baited hooks were thrown out again, and before the bait had sunk a couple of feet it was once more seized.
“Sha’n’t starve here, my lad!” said Small gleefully.
“Not if we can catch the fish,” said Mark, whose fingers were burning with the friction of the line. “I say, Small, is it a crocodile?”