“And you call that spoiled! We’re like to eat them rotten before we’re through with this picnic. How about the pools?”
“Pools? Do you know, Blake, I never thought of the pools. I stopped to watch you, and then we were so anxious about you–”
Blake grunted, and turned on his heel to wade into the half-drained pool in whose midst he had been deposited by the hurricane.
Two or three small fish lay faintly wriggling on the surface. As Blake splashed through the water to seize them, his foot struck against a living body which floundered violently and flashed a brilliant forked tail above the muddy water. Blake sprang over the fish, which was entangled in the reeds, and with a kick, flung it clear out upon the ground.
“A coryphene!” cried Winthrope, and he ran forward to stare at the gorgeously colored prize.
“Coryphene?” repeated Blake, following his example. “Good to eat?”
“Fine as salmon. This is only a small one, but–”
“Fifteen pounds, if an ounce!” cried Blake, and he thrust his hand in his pocket. There was a moment’s silence, and Winthrope, glancing up, saw the other staring in blank dismay.
“What’s up!” he asked.
“Lost my knife.”