“We’ll have one more shot at it,” he said. “The weather is holding good. I’m going to tempt ’em off Knife Rock.”
Again the sloop glided away from the land. The buildings on the Point became a blur. The squat stone lighthouse stuck up less plainly.
“This is somewhere about the right spot,” Jack said at length. “If we don’t make a haul inside half an hour or so, though, we shall have to go, because it’s a good way from here to the harbor, and we shall have to beat our way back.”
Two minutes later he gave a movement of the wrist, and his face lighted up.
“Bite?” George inquired.
“Yes, the right kind, too,” replied the captain. “I’d be very much surprised if that wasn’t a—”
Again he gave a deft movement of the wrist, and then began to draw up the line. A fish was on, fighting gamely, but, cod-like, its fight was brief. Jack estimated as he hauled it aboard that it weighed four pounds.
“It’s a baby compared with your bluefish,” he admitted, baiting up afresh, “but if we’re going to get sport like this, I’ll hate to leave it.”
Almost immediately afterward both boys hooked fish at the same time, and the prospect of the eight-o’clock ferry-boat leaving Garnett and Sayer’s wharf promptly on time began to look less certain. The minutes slipped by quickly, and several more captures were made. Then there came a pause. Jack was on the point of drawing in his line and making ready for the return run, when a sharp tug drew all his attention, and during the next quarter of an hour the fish were biting greedily. So preoccupied was the captain that he did not notice at first that the gentle breeze, before which they had run out from the harbor, had freshened considerably.