248 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



of the basket and into Cossart's stomach that we 

 agreed as to the possibility of overrating the charms 

 of tunny-fishing in mid-Atlantic. A. K. M., we 

 afterwards discovered on comparing notes, must 

 at about that moment have been sitting down 

 to a savoury breakfast of fried becuda, specially 

 prepared for him by the solicitous John. This, 

 be it explained, was not the polylinguist of 

 Funchal, but a most admirable amateur cook, 

 employed, when not conjuring up visions of 

 Delmonico's, in Mr. Hinton's sugar works. 



We were now nearing the fishing fleet, eight or 

 ten boats anchored in that fearful sea and behaving 

 like seesaws at a country fair. When within 

 three or four hundred yards of the nearest, out went 

 our anchor like wise , and by the time about a 

 quarter of a mile of cable had been paid out, we 

 were not more than a hundred yards from our 

 neighbour and just in time to see a tunny hauled on 

 board. This looked like business, but one must 

 not j udge by appearances . Moreover, I had doubted 

 the possibility of playing a heavy fish when 

 anchored in comparatively calm water off Funchal 

 or Cama de Lobos, but there could be no doubt 

 whatever about the immediate result of an en- 

 counter in such a sea as this, with the boat rising 

 and falling ten or fifteen feet as each roller passed 

 under her keel and raced on to the fleet. Even 

 the local handlines, twelve or fifteen hundred feet in 



