“Come, Walters, don’t stand there with your hands in your pockets and let Dale do all the work.”
And again I upset my messmate as if it were a fatality, for I cried out—
“All right, sir, we can manage. Don’t touch the line, Walters.”
“No; don’t touch the line!” cried Mr Denning, and the lad shrank back as if the thin hemp were red-hot.
Then amidst plenty of excitement and some of the crew coming aft, I helped Mr Denning haul and haul till the fish was gradually drawn so close in that we could see its failing efforts to regain its freedom. Apparently it was nearly five feet long, and its sides flashed in the clear water where it was not foaming with the lashing of the captive’s vigorous widely-forked tail.
“Bonito,” cried the captain.
“No, no, albicore,” said Mr Brymer.
“Suppose we wait till it’s fully caught,” said Mr Frewen, smiling at Miss Denning, when I saw her brother give him an angry look.
But the next moment I was thinking only of the fish, which was now so exhausted that it had ceased struggling, and allowed itself to be dragged along in the wake of the ship, merely giving a flap with its tail from time to time which turned it from side to side.
“Now,” said Mr Denning to me, “let us both haul it on board.”