Findlay had brought mackerel hooks and spinners. Quickly two lines were paid out, one on each quarter, Jock tending one and Coles handling the other.
The Spindrift was now moving just at the right speed for this sort of work. In less than a minute a jerk of the line nearly pulled it out of the Tenderfoot's hand. Hauling in the line he secured a good-sized fish.
Coles caught a dozen before Findlay hooked his first fish, which puzzled and chagrined the latter considerably.
"Perhaps it's because my line is to lee'ard," suggested Coles. "Take mine, and I'll try my luck with yours!"
The exchange was effected, but still Coles was the lucky one. In less than an hour he had secured twenty-one mackerel to Findlay's four. Then, contrary to expectation, the breeze died utterly away, and the lines no longer trailed astern.
"We've caught enough, anyway," remarked Findlay, coiling away his lines.
"Yes, mackerel fresh from the salt sea for breakfast," added Desmond. "I'm jolly glad it's not my turn to be cook."
That post on board was no sinecure, and there was no competition for the job; but whoever took it did the work cheerfully and generally well. The Sea Scouts believed in the maxim: "a well fed crew makes a happy ship ".
For the next two hours the Spindrift's progress was tediously slow. Breakfast was cooked and eaten, and the plates and dishes washed up and stowed away, before the breeze sprang up; and Berry Head and the red cliffs of Devon were still plainly visible.
"Rather slower than when we passed here last time, sir, in the Olivette," remarked Desmond.