“Bravo! Bravo! tse, tse, tse!” cried Dick.
“Then if we had a close season for rats, though the farmers might grumble a bit, Tabby and I would have sport, and it is everybody for himself in this world. But, dear Mother Shireen, we are interrupting the easy flow of your narrative. Pray go on.”
Yes, Warlock, and I think if you wait for sport till a close season for rats becomes the law of the land, you’ll be pretty old and stiff before you get it. But on board the saucy Venom, although Tom and I scorned to catch cockroaches like the big ape and the mongoose, we had fine fun at night fishing.
“Fishing?” cried Tabby. “Why, whatever did you catch, Mother Shireen? Sharks?”
No, my dear, nor whales either, though a shark once nearly caught me. No, we caught flying fish, Tom and I.
“Tse, tse, tse!” from Dick.
I observe that Dick is much surprised. Perhaps he thinks I am becoming foolish in my old age. Not a bit of it, Dick. Tom taught me how to catch the flying fish, and I soon became a very apt pupil indeed. And easy work it was. You see, flying fish instead of being chased by dolphins, though they sometimes may be, or by sharks either, are generally out in shoals, looking for their own food, and they fly, Warlock, just for the fun of the thing.
“For sport like?” said Warlock.
Yes, Warlock, for sport.
Well, they always will fly to a light, and so all Tom and I had to do was to sit on the top of the bulwarks and look down. The starlight, flashing in our eyes, soon attracted the attention of the fish, and they jumped over our heads, and danced a jig on the deck behind us.