"Slow work this," observed Roche, giving envious glances at the fellow on the neighbouring yacht, who was hauling in prizes with unfailing regularity. "How is it that that merchant has all the fun, and we don't get so much as a bite?"
The sun set in a blood-red sky, betokening a continuance of fine weather. As the orb of day disappeared behind the distant hills the young flood set in.
Then did the Sea Scouts' luck change. "Dabs", plaice, and flounders were hauled on board in quick succession, until a pailful of fish represented the combined efforts of four lads in under half an hour.
Suddenly Flemming gave a shout of astonishment as his line was almost jerked out of his hand.
"I've hooked a whopper!" he exclaimed. "Doesn't the thing tug?"
"Play with him, then," suggested Peter. "He'll break your line if you don't."
"He's almost broken my fingers," rejoined the excited sportsman. "That's the whole of my line, too."
"Haul in gently," cautioned the Patrol Leader. "For goodness sake don't lose the fish."
Inch by inch, foot by foot, the thin line came inboard, until a furious swirl announced that the "catch" was not far from the surface.
The rest of the Sea Scouts left their lines and crowded round the wildly excited Flemming.