"Drownded—not much," he declared. "They got 'im out an' scrubbed him wi' salt till 'e wur as red as a oiled lobster. Same arternoon 'e wur a-playin' about right as ninepence. That's a solemn fact. Howsomever, tide's about right now. Over with 'em."
Brandon now took the tiller, while his elder companion dived into the fo'c'sle to tend the coke stove and also to fill and light his blackened clay pipe.
It was an ideal night, warm and with just sufficient wind to take the fishing boat over the ground in spite of the drag of the net.
The Frolic apparently had the Silverknoll to herself, although at some miles distant could be discerned the port and masthead lights of a vessel proceeding up-channel.
A little later the lights vanished, owing to a bank of mist drifting towards the solitary fishing boat.
Presently Old Negus emerged from his retreat and peered landwards. There were no marks so far as Brandon could make out; but evidently the old fisherman knew exactly where he was.
"End o' bank," he announced. "Up with yon trawl."
It was tedious work. By dint of their united efforts, the net came home foot by foot, copiously shedding moisture and seaweed, until the "bag," heavy and bulky, showed just below the surface.
"We've got a good haul this time, Negus," declared Brandon.
The old fisherman shook his head.