"Paint! Bring you paint!" roared Malone, apoplectic. "Git out an' git
your paint, or I'll put a longer, uglier head than that on your
shoulders."
Caradoc gave a shrug, stooped for the bucket, then began composedly
climbing the ladder straight at the sputtering officer.
"Be careful there, Smith," warned Madden in an undertone; "he'd as soon
as not slug you without giving you a dog's chance."
Caradoc said nothing but continued his climbing. The men on the platform
fore and aft ceased work, watching the mate and the climbing man
intently. The silence following the usual drone of conversation was
noticeable.
Caradoc was just reaching up to climb into Malone, when at that moment
something happened that drew and held everybody's attention.
The whole face of the sea around the dock broke into a sort of
sputtering. The ocean seemed to boil. To his astonishment, Madden saw
the commotion was caused by millions of small fishes leaping and running
along the surface.
Cries came from all over the dock at once: "Pilchards! Pilchards are
shoaling! Pilchards are shoaling!"
The few gulls in the sky now seemed to multiply and settled in a
fluttering cloud to strike such easily captured food. Among the press of
little fish leaped cod, hake, dog fish, all feasting on the annual
migration of the pilchards.
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