“That’s so, sir,” replied Shaddy. “I’d a deal rather have mine in a rat-trap. Just you look here!”
He picked up the boat-hook and presented the end of the pole to the fish as its jaws gaped open, and touched the palate. In an instant the mouth closed with a snap, and the teeth were driven into the hard wood.
“There, sir,” continued Shaddy, “that’s when he’s half dead. You can tell what he’s like when he’s all alive in the water. Pretty creetur, then,” he continued, apostrophising the dying fish, “it was a pity to kill you. They’ll be pretty glad down below, though, to get rid of you. Wonder how many other better-looking fish he ate every day, Mr Harlow, sir?”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Rob, feeling more comfortable, and his regret passing away.
“With teeth like that, he must have been a regular water tyrant,” said Brazier, after a long examination of the fish, from whose jaws the pole was with difficulty extracted. “There, take it away,” he continued. “Your cook will make something of it, eh, Giovanni?”
“Yes,” said the lad; “we’ll have some for dinner.”
“But what do you suppose it weighs?” cried Rob.
“Good sixty-pound, sir,” said Shaddy, raising the captive on the hook at arm’s length. “Wo-ho!” he shouted as the fish made a struggle, quivering heavily from head to tail. “There you are!” he cried, dropping it into the dinghy. Then in the Guarani dialect he told two of the Indian boatmen to take it on board the schooner, over whose stern several dark faces had now appeared, and soon after the gorgeous-looking trophy was hauled up the vessel’s side and disappeared.