192 DAYS STOLEN FOR SPORT 



a younger man. Pat Lavclle, the second boatman, 

 a sturdy, dark-skinned, black -haired man, showed 

 a deference to his comrade which matched well our 

 driver's faith that Brian O'Malley would meet our 

 needs. 



The fisherman had lines for all sorts of fishing, 

 so we felt sure of fun of some kind, but it was none 

 the less a question of importance that Harry asked, — 



'Are there any pollack to be caught, Mr O'Malley?' 



*I can take ye where they are,' was his reply, so 

 we put our tackle together, and were ready when we 

 were told that we might put our lines out. 



'There'll be foive fathoms here, yer honours,' said 

 O'Malley. 



Had he said, as our driver did, 'The say is full 

 av thim,' I should have thought but little of it, com- 

 pared with his definite information as to the depth 

 and his waiting to see what use we made of it.' 



CHAPTER XIX 



ACHILL POLLACK — A COLLISION — IRISH COMPLIMENTS — 

 A HOPELESS TUSSLE 



The midday sun came down from an unclouded 

 sky, and there would be little chance of sport unless 

 we sunk our lures to somewhere near the fish; our 

 guide, knowing this, had wished to test our know- 

 ledge. The boldest biter and the toughest fighter 

 for his weight, as I claim the pollack to be, is very 

 shy when the sun is bright, so, if you would catch 

 him then, you must sink your bait to within a foot 

 of where he hides beneath the waving weeds of sunken 

 rocks. 



Five fathoms is a depth that needs a heavy lead, 

 even mth the fmest line, when the boat is rowed at 



