Digby was quite delighted when he felt a sharp tug at the end of his line.
“Haul in, haul in; you’ve got him,” said Toby.
Digby hauled away, and soon he saw a fish skimming and jumping along on the smooth surface of the blue water, leaving a thin wake behind him, while his bright scales glistened in the sun. Digby shouted with glee,—“I’ve the first, I’ve the first. Huzza!”
He almost tumbled overboard in his eagerness to catch hold of the fine mackerel which came with what he called a hop, skip, and a jump alongside. He lifted the fish in. The poor mackerel, with his dark back and white belly, did not look nearly so bright out of the water as he had done in it. Digby thought it a very elegant-looking fish, and very unlike any he had ever before caught with John Pratt.
“Now we shall catch a plenty,” said Toby, as, to Digby’s dismay, he took the fish, and, cutting it up into strips, baited each of the hooks with it. “These mackerel like nothing better than their own kind.”
Two or three dozen mackerel were quickly caught, of which Digby hauled up several.
“But have we no chance of catching any carp, or tench, or perch?” he asked, seriously. “I should have thought that there must be plenty about here.”
His companions laughed heartily.
“What is the taste of the water alongside?” asked Marshall.
“Salt,” said Digby, tasting it.