“She must have come in last night,” said Simmons. “Some sea scraper or another working between the islands—Spanish most likely.”
“No, she’s not Spanish,” said Ratcliffe. “I saw her come in and I heard them shouting the soundings in English—look! there’s a chap fishing from her.”
The flash of a fish being hauled on board had caught his eye and fired his passion for sport. They had done no fishing from the Dryad.
He borrowed the dinghy from Simmons and, just as he was, put off.
“Ask them to sell some of their fish, if they’ve any to spare,” cried Simmons as the dinghy got away.
“Ay, ay!” replied Ratcliffe.
The sea blaze almost blinded him as he rowed with the gulls flying round and shouting at him. As he drew up to the yawl the fisherman lugged another fish on board. The fisherman was a boy, a dirty-faced boy, in a guernsey, and as the dinghy came alongside he stared at the pajama-clad one as at an apparition.
“Hullo, there!” cried Ratcliffe, clawing on with the boathook.
“Hullo, yourself!” replied the other.
“Any fish for sale?”