It must have been nearly ten o’clock when the canoes were all in position, and the word was given to let go lines.  The particular spot in which we were congregated was about three acres in extent and about seven fathoms in depth, with water as clear as crystal; and even the dullest eye could discern the smallest pebble or piece of broken coral lying upon the bottom, which was generally composed of patches of coarse sand surrounded by an interlacing fringe of growing coral, or white, blue, or yellow boulders.  A glance over the side showed us that the gatala had arrived; we could see numbers of them swimming lazily to and fro beneath, awaiting the flowing tide which would soon cover the lagoon from one shore to the other with swarms of young bonito, as they swam about in search of such places as that in which we were now about to begin fishing.

Each man had baited his hook with the third of an atuli—­at this stage of their life about four inches long and exactly the colour and shape of a young mackerel—­and within five minutes after “Tu’u tau kafa!” ("Let go lines!”) had been called out several of the canoes around our own began to pull up fish—­four to six pounders.  I was fishing with a white cotton line, with two hooks, and Mareko with the usual native gear—­a hand-made line of hibiscus bark with a barbless hook made from a long wire nail, with its point ground fine and well-curved inwards.  We both struck fish at the same moment, and I knew by the zigzag pull that I had two.  Up they came together—­three spotted beauties about eighteen inches in length and weighing over 5 lbs. each.  Then I found the advantage of the native style of hook; Mareko simply put his left thumb and forefinger into the fish’s eye, had his hook free in a moment, had baited, lowered again and was pulling up another before I had succeeded in freeing even my first hook which was firmly fixed in the fish’s gullet, out of sight.  I soon put myself on a more even footing by cutting off the small one and a half inch hooks I had been using and bending on two thick and long-shanked four inchers.  These answered beautifully, as although the barbs caused me some trouble, their stout shanks afforded a good grip and leverage when extracting them from the hard and keen-toothed jaws of the struggling fish.  Then, too, I had another advantage over my companions; I was wearing a pair of seaboots which effectually protected my feet from either the terrible fins or the teeth of the fish in the bottom of the canoe.

I had caught my eighth fish, when an outcry came from a canoe near us, as a young man who was seated on the for’ard thwart rose to his feet and began hauling in his line, which was standing straight up and down, taut as an iron bar, the canoe meanwhile spinning round and round although the steersman used all his efforts to keep her steady.

“What is it, Tuluia?” called out fifty voices at once.  “A shark?”

“My mother’s bones!” said old Viliamu with a laugh of contempt. “’Tis an eel, and Tuluia, who was asleep, has let it twist its tail around a piece of coral.  May he lose it for his stupidity.”