“I’ve got one!” cries Jorrocks—­“I’ve got one—­now, my wig, if I can but land him.  I have him, certainly—­by Jove! he’s a wopper, too, judging by the way he kicks.  Oh, but it’s no use, sir—­come along—­come along—­here he is—­doublets, by crikey—­two, huzza! huzza!  What fine ones!—­young haddocks or codlings, I should call them—­werry nice eating, I dare say—­I’m blow’d if this arn’t sport.”  “I have one,” cries our young friend again.  “So have I,” shouts another; and just at the same moment I felt the magic touch of my bait, and in an instant I felt the thrilling stroke.  The fish were absolutely voracious, and we had nothing short of a miraculous draught.  As fast as we could bait they swallowed, and we frequently pulled them up two at a time.  Jorrocks was in ecstasies.  “It was the finest sport he had ever encountered,” and he kept halloaing and shouting every time he pulled them up, as though he were out with the Surrey.  Having just hooked a second couple, he baited again and dropped his line.  Two of our new friends had hooked fish at the same instant, and, in their eagerness to take them, overbalanced the boat, and Jorrocks, who was leaning over, went head foremost down into the deeps!

* * * * *

A terrible surprise came over us, and for a second or two we were so perfectly thunderstruck as to be incapable of rendering any assistance.  A great splash, followed by a slight gurgling sound, as the water bubbled and subsided o’er the place where he went down, was all that denoted the exit of our friend.  After a considerable dive he rose to the surface, minus his hat and wig, but speedily disappeared.  The anchor was weighed, oars put out, and the boat rowed to the spot where he last appeared.  He rose a third time, but out of arms’ reach, apparently lifeless, and just as he was sinking, most probably for ever, one of the men contrived to slip the end of an oar under his arm, and support him on the water until he got within reach from the boat.

The consternation when we got him on board was tremendous!  Consisting, as we did, of two parties, neither knowing where the other had come from, we remained in a state of stupefied horror, indecision, and amazement for some minutes.  The poor old man lay extended in the bottom of the boat, apparently lifeless, and even if the vital spark had not fled, there seemed no chance of reaching Herne Bay, whose pier, just then gilded by the rich golden rays of the setting sun, appeared in the far distance of the horizon.  Where to row to was the question.  No habitation where effective succour could be procured appeared on the shore, and to proceed without a certain destination was fruitless.  How helpless such a period as this makes a man feel!  “Let’s make for Grace’s,” at length exclaimed one of the boatmen, and the other catching at the proposition, the head of the boat was whipped round in an instant, and away we sped through the glassy-surfaced water.