They were in the swell from the open sea now, and the Viking and its companion, the Gracie, were lifting and dipping amid the long, rolling waves. About them, and ahead here and there, clouds of spray, cast like chaff into the air, told of reefs; sometimes marked with a spindle, or a cask set on the top of a pole, if it lay near the course; sometimes with a thin point of the ledge rising a few feet above water.
Some three miles down the coast of Loon Island a reef of several rods in length broke the force of the waves from seaward; and as these dashed in upon it they crashed into a thousand particles, which gleamed transiently with the colours of the rainbow as the sun shone upon the drops. Close under the lee of this reef went Will Hackett, and cast anchor a few rods away, not far from another boat, already at anchor. The Viking followed, and likewise anchored at a little distance, and sails were furled.
Quickly the heavy cod-lines, equipped with two hooks each, and bulky sinker, were dropped overboard; and the boys waited expectantly, their baits close to bottom.
“A prize to the one that gets the first cod,” said Harvey.
“What’s the prize?” asked Bob.
“Why, he can keep the cod’s head,” said Henry Burns. “Hello!” he exclaimed a moment later. “I’ve hooked on bottom, I guess. No, it must be seaweed.”
Henry Burns began hauling in with considerable effort.
“Why, it’s a fish!” he exclaimed the next moment. “There’s something moving on the end of the line. But he doesn’t fight any. Comes up like so much lead.”
“That’s the way they act,” said Harvey. “They don’t make any fuss. But you’ve got a big one.”
Henry Burns, hauling with all his might, hand over hand, presently brought to the surface an enormous cod.