Baiting their hooks with mullets, Mac on one side of the boat and Tom on the other, the young sportsmen cast their bait as far out as possible, let it sink to the bottom, and then began the long wait.
“I reckon they bite accordin’ to their size,” remarked Bob, after a quarter of an hour’s unfruitful interval.
“Never you mind,” retorted Tom. “Real Tarpon fishermen wait a week sometimes.”
“An’ then don’t get nothin’,” added Mac.
“I could get a bucket of perch up on Lake Michigan in this time,” yawned Bob.
The two fishermen sneered in disdain.
“Just you wait,” exclaimed Tom. “If we do have any luck, this old boat’ll be the busiest place you evah saw fo’ a few hours.”
“A few hours?” shouted Bob. “And we’ve got to sit here suckin’ our thumbs all that time? Not on your life. I’ll take a snooze.”
Jerry followed his example. Twice, while the two idle boys slept, curled up in the vacant cockpit with a loose sail stretched to ward off the sun, Captain Joe hoisted anchor, and, with the jib, changed the position of the schooner searching for a possible school. Suddenly, about eleven o’clock, Tom had a strike.
For an instant, he was in doubt. Then the unmistakable leap, with its shower of silvery spray, left no question. As his line disappeared and Tom’s reel began to hum, there was swift action on deck. Captain Joe sprang to the main sail and yelled for Jerry. Mac reeled in his line with speed and then tumbled aft to the wheel.