"Weed, mos' like," he rejoined. "Mind yon otter-board. It be fairish heavy."
When the catch was examined it was found to consist mainly of sand and seaweed. But half a dozen medium-sized soles and a couple of dabs rewarded their efforts.
"There's summat about to-night," decided Old Negus, as he set up the peak of the mainsail. "We'm still main early."
With flattened sheets the Frolic beat to wind'ard until she gained a position favourable to shooting the trawl again. It was now close on midnight. The mist was thickening, although it was possible to discern objects a quarter of a mile away.
"Take her, lad," said Old Negus, when the trawl was trailing astern. "I'll make a drop o' cocoa. 'Twill be main acceptable, I'll allow."
Once more the old fisherman disappeared under the foredeck, leaving Brandon at the helm.
The Patrol-leader's back and arms were aching, his wet fingers were almost raw with the chafe of the sandy ropes, notwithstanding the fact that he rather prided himself upon the horny state of his hands.
He was beginning to realise that a fisherman's life, even on a calm night, was not "all honey." He tried to imagine what it would be like on a boisterous night, with the canvas board hard with frozen spray.
Presently Brandon's ears caught the faint sounds of an engine throbbing. He peered in the direction from which the steady pulsations came, fully expecting to see the navigation lights of a vessel.
He saw none. The noise of the approaching craft became steadily louder and louder.