"Arn't got nothing to strike blows with," croaked Hezz sulkily. " Didn't I tell you she was a fishingboat?"
"Oh, yes; but I know what fishing-boats catch sometimes, Master Hezz," said Lance, laughing, his companion looking at him curiously the while—"brandy snappers, 'bacco biters, and lace-fins, Hezz. But they're French cowards, or they'd have made a run of it. I say, they'll make her a prize, and take her into port. Where will they take her—Plymouth or Falmouth?"
"Nowheres. They'll let her go."
The lads sat watching till all at once in the distance they saw the little boat row back, and the sails of the chasse-marée began to fill.
"Who's right now?" said Hezz, laughing.
"I am. They've put a prize crew on board."
"What! out of that little boat?" squeaked Hezz.
"That they haven't. There was five in her when she put put off, and there's five in her now."
"You can't see at this distance."
"Can't I? That I can, quite plain."
"That's upset all my fishing," said Lance, "and it's getting on for dinner-time. Oh, what bad luck I do have!"
"You ketch lots sometimes, and you did nearly get a fine bass to-day. That was a good twelve-pounder."
"Twelve? Fifteen," said Lance, preparing to haul in his line.
"P'raps," said Hezz. "Going to try any more?"
"No; I mustn't be late for—— Oh, look here! I've got one on."
For the line was tight, and as Lance began to haul, it was against a heavy persistent drag.
"Lead caught in the rocks," croaked Hezz contemptuously.
"Oh, is it! Look here! It's coming up."
