There was secret admiration in Brandon's mind as he glanced at the stolid face of the hale and hearty fisherman, who, notwithstanding his three score and ten years, was as active as many a man half his age, and looked strong in muscles and sinews.
The Silverknoll Bank lay about fifteen miles east of Aberstour and about two and a half miles from Broken Point, the nearest land.
It was what was known as uncertain ground—the fishermen could never rely upon a steady catch. Sometimes the trawl would be full of fine soles; at others the result of a hard night's work would be so small as to render the trip unprofitable, and sometimes not sufficient to pay for the wear and tear of the gear.
But the perplexing part of the business was this: where did the fish go? There was no other sandy patch for miles, and since flat fish rarely desert their favourite ground and almost invariably give rocky bottoms a wide berth, the unaccountable coming and going of the soles was a mystery.
Close hauled on the starboard it took the Frolic a good three hours to arrive at the spot Negus had chosen for the casting of the net. By this time the sun had set and a slight mist was stealing seawards from the low-lying land.
"Mun' wait a-while," remarked the old fisherman. "Tide don't carve yet. We'll overrun yon trawl. Mind you be careful as we're shootin' it an' don't go overboard with it."
"I'll try not to," replied Brandon. "A fellow wouldn't stand much chance mixed up with that lot."
"He might," continued the Frolic's owner. "I call to mind when I wur a young man—twixt fifty an' sixty year agone—I knowed a boy what was carried overboard in the pocket of the trawl. Twenty minutes 'e wur under water—p'raps more, sartainly no less."
"He was drowned, of course," said Brandon.
Old Negus chortled.