"Beg your pardon, sir," was the almost incoherent reply. "I've run
all the way up, and there's a rare wind blowing. There's one of our
--our trawlers lying off the Point, and she's sent up three green
and six yellow balls."
"Whiting, by God!" Sir Henry exclaimed.
"Whiting!" Philippa repeated, in agonised disgust. "What does this
mean, Henry?"
"It must be a shoal," her husband explained. "It means that we've
got to get amongst them quick. Is the Ida down on the beach, Jimmy?"
"She there all right, sir," was the somewhat doubtful reply, "but
us'll have a rare job to get away, sir. That there nor'easter is
blowing great guns again and it's a cruel tide."
"We've got to get out somehow," Sir Henry declared. "Mills, my
oilskins and flask at once. I sha'n't change a thing, but you might
bring a cardigan jacket and the whisky and soda."
Mills withdrew, a little dazed. Philippa, whose fingers were
clenched together, found her tongue at last.
"Henry!" she exclaimed furiously.
"What is it, my dear?"
"Do you mean to tell me that after your promise," she continued,
"after what you have just said, you are starting out to-night for
another fishing expedition?"
"Whiting, my dear," Sir Henry explained. "One can't possibly miss
whiting. Where the devil are my keys?--Here they are. Now then.
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