The boy disappeared without reply—a willing messenger. A few minutes more, and Ivor and Ian were rowing the boat towards a part of the sea which was deemed good fishing ground, while the rest of the party busied themselves arranging the lines.
Strong brown lines they were, wound on little square wooden frames, each with a heavy leaden sinker and a couple of strong coarse hooks of whitened metal attached to the lines by stout whipcord; for the denizens of those western waters were not the poddlies, coddlings, and shrimps that one is apt to associate with summer resorts by the sea. They were those veritable inhabitants of the deep that figure on the slabs of Billingsgate and similar markets—plaice and skate of the largest dimensions, congers that might suggest the great sea serpent, and even sharks of considerable size.
The surroundings were cognate. Curlews and sandpipers whistled on the shore, complaining sea-mews sailed overhead, and the low-lying skerries outside were swarming with “skarts” and other frequenters of the wild north.
“Oh, what a funny face!” exclaimed Junkie, as a great seal rose head and shoulders out of the sea, not fifty yards off, to look at them. Its observations induced it to sink promptly.
“Let co the anchor, Tonal’,” said Ian; “the pottom should be cood here.”
“Hand me the pait, Junkie,” said McGregor.
“Shie a bit this way,” shouted Eddie.
“There—I’ve broke it!” exclaimed Junkie, almost whimpering, as he held up the handle of his knife in one hand, and in the other a mussel with a broken blade sticking in it.
“Never mind, Junkie. You can have mine, and keep it,” said Mabberly, handing to the delighted boy a large buck-horn-handled knife, which bristled with appliances.
“An’ don’t try it on again,” said Ian. “Here iss pait for you, my poy.”