“It doesn’t seem much use,” said Mark bitterly. “My hands are quite sore.”
“You’ll be obliged to let me have a try. Skipper’ll come down on me if we don’t have something to show when we get back. Ah! there’s a nice fish now,” he continued, as a great fellow looking like a fifty-pound salmon sprang a full yard out of the water and fell back with a tremendous splash.
“Why, that’s him,” cried Mark, “and he’s on still.”
“Hooray! then: get him this time, my lad,” cried Small; and it was evident now that, finding its course out to sea checked, the fish had suddenly turned and darted back, swimming toward the boat and causing the slackening of the line, but directly in the hauling it felt the hook it sprang right out of the water and made a fresh rush.
But this was not so powerful a run as the first, and as Mark held on, the fish repeated its manoeuvre and swam toward the boat.
This time Mark was able to haul in nearly half the line before the fish made another dart, but only to be checked, and rush to and fro, forming zigzags through the water, which it varied by a series of leaps clear out.
“You’ll lose him, my lad, you’ll lose him,” grumbled Small at every bound; but the hook was fast in, and Mark instinctively gave line at every rush till the fish grew weary, and was drawn in closer to the boat after the wild dashes, and then, for the seventh or eighth time as it was hauled in, and Mark was prepared for a new dart, and in dread that this time the hook should straighten or break away, the panting creature suddenly turned up and floated upon its side.
“Well hauled,” shouted Small. “You have done it this time, my lad.”
“Not caught yet!” said Mark. “How are we to get it in the boat?”
“Oh, I’ll show you about that,” said the boatswain, loosening his hold of the rock, and, watching his opportunity, he gaffed the great fish cleverly with the boat-hook by drawing it into the prize’s gills, and the next instant it lay splashing at the bottom of the boat.