“Gone!”
“No,” growled Shaddy. “Pull in a bit, my lad. Steady!”
Joe began to haul in the line, drawing in yard after yard, which fell in rings to the bottom of the boat, till half the fishing cord must have been recovered.
“He has gone, Shaddy,” said Joe.
“Beginning to think you’re right, my lad. Fancied at first he’d swum up to the side, for there’s no telling what a fish may do when— Look out; he’s on still,” roared Shaddy. “Hold the line, my lad. Don’t let him haul it quite out, or he’ll snap it when he gets to the end.”
Joe seized the line and let it slip through his fingers, but the friction was so painful that he would have let go again had not Shaddy stepped to his help and taken hold behind him.
“Won’t hurt my fingers,” he growled; “they’re a deal too hard,” and he kept hold so that he did not interfere with Joe’s work in playing the fish, but relieved him of the strain and friction as the line cut the water here and there.
Brazier looked on with plenty of interest in the proceedings, for the capture of a fish of goodly size was a matter of some consequence to the leader of an expedition with eight hungry people to cater for day after day.
“Think it’s a dorado, Shaddy?” asked Rob.
“Ought to be, my lad, from its taking an orange, and if it is it’s ’bout the heaviest one I’ve knowed. My word, but he does pull! Can’t say as ever I felt one shake his head like that before. Shall I play him now, my lad?”