"Well," Bill Roberts offered, as they were leaving, "if you are going out fishing to-night I'll come over and stay with the boy."
Our friends accepted his offer gratefully, for they had been loath to think of leaving their chum alone with Chris, only. It was true he was doing finely but there might come a change for the worse and the little negro would be helpless to get word to them.
True to his promise, Bill appeared before sundown and they were free for another hunt for the finny prizes.
They were not long in coming upon a promising-looking school of fish which Charley decided to run.
Walter's absence made a slight difference in the mode of making the circle, but they got around most of the bunch in good shape.
"I believe we are going to make a good haul," Charley declared, with satisfaction, as they rested after drumming up. "There's a lot of fish in the circle and they seem to be hitting the net good."
But his hopes gave way to dismay as he pulled in yard after yard of his net without getting a fish. Instead the net seemed riddled with a multitude of holes.
"Get anything, Captain," he paused to shout.
"Nothing but holes," said the old sailor, disgustedly. "Got a hundred of them."
"Queer," Charley muttered. He gathered up some of the loose webbing in either hand and pulled gently. The tested part broke as easily as a spider's web. Every few yards for the entire length of the net he repeated the operation. The result was always the same. He finished picking up and, sitting down, waited dejectedly for the old sailor.