Part 41 (1/2)

”That's them, lad. That's the school o' mack'rel, and I shouldn't wonder if they come right on the flat rock sand.”

”What--out of the water?”

”Out of the water? No. Not unless they are catched, and then they'll come out of the water fast enough.”

”Look at that chap on the cliff!” cried d.i.c.k, as the man began waving what really were boughs of heather up and down.

”Yes, he's signalling away to them in the boat. He can see the school.

P'r'aps they can't; and he's telling 'em which way to row.”

”But what are they going to do?” cried d.i.c.k.

”Do? Why, try and catch that school of mack'rel. Can't you see the seine?”

”What--the net?” said d.i.c.k.

”Yes; that's it--hundreds of yards of it. Can you see which way the school's going?”

”Right up to the head of the bay,” replied Will.

”Then they are going over the sands, and the lads'll get them. Can't shoot a seine if there's rocks anywhere near,” added Josh for the visitor's information. ”Get the net torn, and the mack'rel would get out of the hole or under the bottom, where it rests on the rocks. You'd like to stop and see them shoot?”

”What--the mackerel?” said d.i.c.k.

”Yah! No; the net.”

”Shoot it?” said d.i.c.k.

”Yes; shoot it over into the sea.”

”Oh! I understand,” said d.i.c.k; ”but they shoot rubbish.”

”Oh, they shoot rubbish, do they?” said Josh.

”Yes, about London,” replied d.i.c.k. ”Look how he's waving his arms about.”

”Yes. School's going off another way. P'r'aps they mayn't get a chance to shoot, for the school may go out to sea.”

”Let's row close up. I want to see,” cried d.i.c.k.

”Nay, nay; we might be frightening the fish. Let's wait and see first, and if they surround 'em then we'll go close up. You sit still and watch.”

The scene was worth watching on that bright morning, with the blue sky above, the glittering sea below, the village nestling in the cliffs, with its chimneys sending up their columns of smoke into the clear air; and at the foot of the cliff, as if seeking its protection, lay the little fis.h.i.+ng fleet, with its brown sails giving warmth and colour to as bonny an English landscape as could well be seen. There up aloft, where the hill cliff was purple and gold and grey with heath and furze and crag, was the man with the bushes, signalling to his comrades in the boat, which seemed to be crawling slowly along, the piled-up filmy brown net, lying in a clumsy heap, so it seemed, but really in carefully laid-out folds, with every rope in place ready for the work to be done.

Uncle Abram's boat was allowed to drift with the current as its three occupants watched the proceedings, Will with the more interest that his uncle had a share in the seine, that is to say, he found so many score yards of which its length was composed, and consequently would take his proportion of the profits if the mackerel were caught.

”She's going right for the sands,” cried Josh excitedly. ”They'll have a fine haul. See 'em, lad--see 'em?”

”Yes, I can see the dark ripple of the water gradually going along,”