Mostyn's Watch
Just before sunset the wind dropped to a flat calm. Peter took advantage of the practically motionless conditions to employ the fishing-lines that had been discovered in the after locker. The hooks were sharpened by means of the sandpaper fixed to the solitary box of matches in the boat. Small pieces of biscuit, soaked in water and rolled between the finger and thumb, served as bait. The lines were old and far from sound, but might be relied upon to bear a steady strain of about seven pounds.
"Do we fish on the bottom, Mr. Mostyn?" asked Olive facetiously.
"Yes, rather," replied Peter, entering into the jovial spirit. "That is, if your line is long enough. We're only about a mile from the nearest land, and that's immediately beneath us."
Olive lowered her line steadily. Before she had paid out half of it there was a perceptible jerk and the line slackened.
"I've struck soundings," she reported.
At first Mostyn thought that the girl was still joking, but an exclamation from one of the lascars, who was lowering one of the lines, convinced him that the lead weights had touched something of a solid nature.
Taking Miss Baird's line, Peter held it between his extended first and middle fingers. He could distinctly feel the lead trailing over a hard bottom, as the boat was carried along by a slight current.
"Strange," he ejaculated. "We're in less than five fathoms. I had no idea that there was a shoal hereabouts."
Steadying himself by the mast, Mostyn stood upon the gunwale and scanned the horizon. North, south, east, and west the aspect was much the same—an unbroken expanse of water, differing in colour according to the bearing. To the east it was sombre, to the west the sea was crimson, as it reflected the gorgeous tints of the setting sun.