Gradually the long line of the Llanelly houses and chimneys slipped by. Evan had clambered aft and at intervals he felt with the hand of an expert the weighted lines which were trailing astern. He frowned as he glanced again at the two mackerel. He had had a good many fishing trips with his father during the holidays, and never before had they had such a miserable catch. How he wished he could have a couple of good bites before they had to give up!
The thought had scarcely passed through his mind when the line he was holding tightened suddenly and began to run out through his fingers. At the same moment the next line, which was made fast round the after thwart, also grew taut, strained for a second, then with a jerk slackened and lay dead. Evan leaped to his feet and screamed out in excitement:
“Hold, daddy, hold! Back water quick! I’ve got something big!”
The line continued to run out until Mr. Morgan, by rowing against the tide, brought the boat relatively to a standstill. Then the line stopped as if anchored to something below, twitching indeed from the current, but not giving the thrilling chucks and snatches for which the boy was hoping.
“Oh, blow!” he cried, disgustedly. “It’s not a fish. We’ve got a stone or some seaweed. See, this one caught it, too.”
He dropped the line he was holding and pulled in the other. Its hooks were missing.
“See,” he repeated. “What did I tell you? We shall probably lose the hooks of this one, too. It’s caught fast.”
“Steady, old man. Take the oars and let me feel it.”
Mr. Morgan moved into the stern and pulled the resisting line, but without effect.
“Rather curious this,” he said. “All this stretch is sand. I once saw it uncovered at very low springs. Keep rowing till I feel round the thing with the grappling and see if I can find out what it is.”
Evan passed the small three-pronged anchor aft and his father let it down beside the line. Soon it touched bottom.
“About three and a half fathoms—say twenty feet,” Mr. Morgan remarked. “Keep her steady while I feel about.”
He raised the grappling and, moving it a few inches to one side, lowered it again. Four times it went down to the same depth; on the fifth trial it stopped three feet short.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “there’s something there right enough.” He danced the grappling up and down. “And it’s certainly not seaweed. Treasure trove, Evan, eh?”
“Try round a bit and see how big it is,” Evan suggested, now thoroughly interested.
Mr. Morgan “tried round.” Had he been by himself he would have dismissed the incident with a muttered imprecation at the loss of his hooks. But for the sake of the boy he wished to make it as much of an adventure as possible.
“Curious,” he therefore commented again. “I’m afraid we shall not be able to save our hooks. But let’s take bearings so that we may be able to ask about it ashore.” He looked round. “See, there’s a good nor’west bearing. That signal post on the railway is just in line with the west gable of the large white house on the hill. See it? Now for a cross bearing. Suppose we take that tall mill chimney, the tallest of that bunch. It’s just in line with the pier-head beacon. What about those?”
“Fine, I think. What can the thing be, dad?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps something drifted in from a wreck. We’ll ask Coastguard Manners. Now I’ll pull in the grappling, and then the line, and if the hooks go I can’t help it.”
The little anchor had been lying on the bottom while they talked. Mr. Morgan now seized the rope and began to pull. But he had not drawn in more than two feet when it tightened and remained immovable.
“By Jove! The grappling’s caught now!” he exclaimed. “A nuisance, that. We don’t want to lose our grappling.”
“Let’s pull up. Perhaps it will come clear.”
Evan put down the oars and joined his father in the stern. Both pulled steadily with all their strength. For a time nothing happened, then suddenly the rope began to yield. It did not come away clear, but gave slowly as if the object to which it was attached was lifting also.
“By Jove!” Mr. Morgan exclaimed again. “We shall get our hooks, after all! The whole thing’s coming up.”
Slowly the rope came in foot after foot. The object, whatever it was, was heavy, and it was all they could do to raise it. Mr. Morgan pulled in sudden heaves, while Evan took a turn with the line round a thwart, so as to hold the weight while his father rested.
At last the end of the rope was reached and the shank of the grappling appeared. Then dimly beneath the surface Mr. Morgan was able to see the object hooked. It was a large wooden packing case or crate.
Round the sides were crosspieces, holding the sheeting boards in place. Two of the sharp flukes of the grappling had caught beneath one of these, and of course, the greater the pull on them, the more firmly they became fixed.
To raise the crate while submerged and displacing its own volume of water had been just possible. To lift it aboard was out of the question. For a time the two considered the problem of getting it ashore, then Mr. Morgan said:
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll make the rope fast and row in with the crate hanging to our stern. Then we’ll beach it on the lifeboat slip, and
