“Not these rocks.” Katie laughed a deep, happy laugh. “But these will do.”
They had planned a supper of planked fish on the rocks off Edward’s Island. Snugly stowed away in the prow of the boat was a closed tin bucket containing sandwiches, a small pie and salt for the fish.
With some difficulty, Katie managed to prepare a plank from a flat section of log.
“Now,” she said, “the fish.”
“The big one?” Florence asked.
“No. Never!” Katie was horrified. “That prize! No. We shall go home tomorrow and we shall say, ‘See, we have been fishing and we caught this one. Such a whopper!’” Once again she laughed her deep, mellow laugh.
“No,” she added, “one of the little ones will do very well. A two-pound fish. Who could ask for more?”
The fish was cleaned, boned and laid out flat on the plank. Then, with a wire, Katie bound it fast. For a full half hour after that the fish hung stewing and sizzling over the fire. Turning browner and browner, it was at last like the rich gold of an autumn leaf.
“Now,” said Katie with a sigh, “it is done.”
In her short life Florence had eaten many grand meals and in many a curious place. But none was as grand as this and no place more strange.