“And why?” demanded his sister, with wide-open eyes.
“We never feel much like eating on rough days,” explained Darry. “You see, the Marigold kicks up quite a shindy when the sea is choppy.”
“Let us hope it will be calm all the way to Station Island,” Jessie cried.
She had her wish. At least, the wind was fair, the sea “kicked up no combobberation,” to quote her chum, and every one enjoyed the sail. If the Marigold was not a racing boat, her speed was sufficient. They had no desire to get to the island until the following day.
Darry’s sailing master was a seasoned old mariner named Pandrick. They called him Skipper. At noon the yacht crossed one of the many “banks” to which New York fishing boats sail and the skipper pronounced the time opportune for fishing.
“There’s blackfish and flounders on the bottom and yellow-fin and maybe bass higher up. You won’t find a better chance, Mr. Darry,” observed the sailing master.
Every one grew excited over this prospect, and the boys got out the tackle and bait. Even Henrietta must fish. Jessie had been about to suggest a cushioned seat in the cabin for the little girl, with a pillow and a rug, for she had seen Henrietta nodding after lunch. The child would not hear of anything like that.
The anchor was dropped quietly and the Marigold swung at that mooring while the fishermen took their stations. Darry gave his personal attention to Henrietta’s bait and showed her how to cast her line. The little girl had been fishing many times, if only for fresh water fish, and she was not awkward.
“Don’t you bother ‘bout me, Miss Jessie,” she said to her mentor impatiently. “I bet I get a fish before you do. I ain’t so slow.”
Amy had fixed a station for her chum beside her own in the shade of the awning. Mr. Norwood and Mr. Drew had brought their rods. Everybody was soon engaged in an occupation which really calls for the undivided attention of the fisherman. The boys ordered all of them to keep quiet.