“Gentlemen, I beg of you, don’t harass my feelings by talking of fish,” protested Sir Arthur, who was gradually recovering from his severe fright. “It makes me think of white-bait dinners at Greenwich. I dined there two days before I sailed for Africa.”
“And you will dine there again, many a time,” replied the colonel. “Only keep up your spirits, Ashby.”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” groaned Sir Arthur, with a dismal shake of the head that belied his words.
Meanwhile Guy had been preparing the lines, and handing one to the Greek, they cast them in the eddy below the island. In less than five minutes Guy landed a trumpet, a fish of a deep purple color, a foot in length. Canaris hauled one out at the same time, and within an hour they had caught more than a dozen, all of the same species and of about the same length.
“We’ll take them along with us,” said Guy. “We may find driftwood enough to build a fire and cook them.”
“And if we don’t find any,” cried Canaris, “we can cook them by holding them in the flame of the torch.”