“I never heard of a bait like that.”
“Oh, I dunno, my lad,” said Shaddy. “I’ve caught carp with green peas and gooseberries at home.”
“Orange the best bait for a dorado,” said the Italian softly, as he placed the point of the hook to his satisfaction.
“Dorado? That ought to be Spanish for a golden carp,” said Rob.
“That’s it. You’ve about hit it, my lad,” cried Shaddy, “for these here are as much like the gold-fish you see in the globes at home as one pea’s like another.”
“Then they’re only little fish?” said Rob, with a contemptuous tone in his voice.
“Oh yes, only little ones, my lad,” said Shaddy, exchanging glances with the new-comer, who lowered the baited hook softly over the side of the boat, and rapidly paid out the line as the orange was borne away by the current.
“There, Rob, you fish!” the Italian said. “Hold tight if one comes.”
“No; go on,” replied Rob. “I’m hot and tired. Bother the flies!”
The young Italian nodded, and sitting down, twisted the end of the stout line round a pin in the side of the boat, looking, in his loose flannel shirt and trousers and straw hat, just such a lad as might be seen any summer day on the river Thames, save that he was bare-footed instead of wearing brown leather or canvas shoes. Excepting the heavy breathing of the sleepers forward, there was perfect silence once again till Shaddy said,—