“Ah, well, I suppose you know best,” he said, smiling. “Go on.”
He gave an uneasy glance back along the deck to see if any one else were near but the man at the wheel, who had his back to us, and I let about fifty yards of the stout line run out before I checked it and placed it in Mr Denning’s hands as he stood leaning against the bulwarks.
“Shall I give a twist round one of the belaying-pins?” I said.
“What for?” he cried sharply. “Do you think I am too weak to hold it?”
“Oh no,” I said quickly, “but we may hook a big fish, and the line would cut your hand.”
He smiled as if he doubted me, and to guard against his letting go, I unwound the whole of the remaining line and laid it out in rings before fastening the winder tightly beneath the bulwark, so that even if the line were all run out the fish would be checked and caught.
Just then Walters came sauntering up, and I could not help thinking that from his size and our uniform being the same, how easily we might be taken one for the other in the gloom of the forecastle.
Mr Denning turned and looked at him for a moment, and then back to watch his line without a word, while Miss Denning bowed slightly.
“They don’t like Walters,” I said to myself.
“Had any bites?” he said with a sniggering laugh.