"Don't say that again. Come, catch the fish for our dinner, Note."
"I'm only a humble Basin, Miss Kirtland. I didn't think to fetch no bait."
Vesty took a parcel of six small herrings from her pocket, laughing.
"Yes, our women are smart," sighed Notely.
"Shall you catch, or will I?"
"You," said Notely, tossing out the anchor.
He watched her, strong and beautiful, her lips pursed with the feline pursuit of prey, as she baited her hook and threw out the line, quite oblivious now, apparently, of him.
He saw her thrill with excitement as the line stiffened and she began to haul in, hand over hand; it was a big cod too. Vesty always had the luck. There was glory in her cheeks when she brought the struggling, flopping fish over into the boat.
"Vesty," said Note mischievously, drawing near, "how would you feel to be caught like that on the end of somebody's line—struggling, flopping?"
His sentimental tone gave way in spite of himself. She turned and gave him a smart box on the ear.