At the cost of some burns and cuts he managed at last to make something distantly resembling one.
"It looks horrid," said The Girl when he showed it to her. "I shall be sorry for the fishes if they get that into them."
"So shall I. But we'll not let them suffer long if they give us the chance."
She was as eager as a child with a new toy to put their work to the test. So he cut some small pieces of pork and embedded his hook in one, and dropped it into the bed of mist over the side.
And she leaned over, with her shoulder unconsciously against his,—but he felt it, and rejoiced in the feel as keenly as ever Macro did in his treasure-trove—and peered anxiously down at the line, of which she could see but a couple of feet, and waited impatiently for results.
He put it into her hand, saying,
"If anything comes of it you shall have the honour of catching our first fish," but he held on to the slack behind.
"It's jerking," she whispered breathlessly, "Oh, I'm sure there's something on it..." and as she let go the line he gave it a jerk on his own account, then drew it quickly in and a plump astonished fish lay jumping and twisting on the deck. It was over a foot in length, very prettily coloured, dark blue with many cross-streaks and silvery below.
"Mackerel, I think," he said, and promptly knocked it on the head, to end its troubles and allow him the further use of his hook.
"The poor little thing! I'm so sorry," she said, looking mournfully down at the iridescent beauty. "I don't think I like fishing."