“How can he see a school of fish coming?”
“Colour,” growled Tom Jennen, who had now turned round, and was trying to spit upon a particular boulder on the shore below.
“Yes, by the colour, sir,” said the miner, Amos, or more commonly Preaching Pengelly—“colour of the water; and then he signals to his mates. That’s them gone off in yon boat.”
“I see.”
“They have their boot ready with the seine in—long net, you know—and rows out, just as you see them now.”
“Yes; but what’s the use of his waving those things now?”
“Them’s bushes, sir,” continued the miner, who was talking, and reading the new-comer at the same time. “Don’t you see, them in the boot being low down, couldn’t see which way to go, so he waves them on with the bushes.”
“To be sure, yes,” said Geoffrey. “I see now. They are throwing something over—yes, of course, the net. So that dark, ripply patch, then, is where the fish lie?”
“Yes, sir, that’s them,” said the miner, who seemed strangely attracted; “but you’ve got good eyes.”
“Think so?” said Geoffrey, smiling. Then, nodding his thanks, he walked farther along the cliff to watch what was a novelty to him—the taking of the shoal of mackerel.