One gulp and it's all over. I
watched one old bird tuck away about ten fish in as many minutes.
"Gee!" says I. "Every day is Friday with him. Or maybe he's got a
contract to supply Fulton Market."
The entertainin' part of the performance, though, was when the bunch
took it into their heads to move on, and started to fly. They've got
little short legs and wide feet that they flop back and forth foolish,
like they was tryin' to kick themselves out of the water. They make a
getaway about as graceful as a cow tryin' the fox trot. But say, once
they get goin', with them big wings planed against the breeze, they can
do the soar act something grand. And dive! One of 'em doin' a
hundred-foot straight down plunge has got Annette lookin' like a
plumber fallin' off a roof backwards.
No, there wasn't any gloom around our side of the yacht, though I'll
admit it don't take much of a program to keep me amused while Vee has
the next orchestra chair to mine. We took no notice of anybody's
grouch, and whether or not there was any pirate gold in the
neighborhood was a question we didn't waste thought on. We knew there
wouldn't be anything in it for us, even if there was.
When the word was passed around that anybody that wanted to might get
out and fish, we was the first to volunteer.
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