“Don’t try to do it too fast,” Roger told him. “Don’t rush yourself. Just keep it steady.”
The boy was bending forward and pulling up from the soles of his feet, using all the leverage of his body and all of what weight he had on each lift; then reeling fast with his right hand as he lowered.
“David fishes awfully pretty,” young Tom said. “He’s fished since he was a little boy but I didn’t know he could fish this well. He always makes fun of himself because he can’t play games. But look at him now.”
“The hell with games,” Thomas Hudson said. “What did you say, Roger?”
“Go ahead on him just a touch,” Roger called up.
“Ahead on him just a touch,” Thomas Hudson repeated and on the next lift, as they nudged slowly forward, David recovered more line.
“Don’t you like games either, papa?” Tom asked.
“I used to. Very much. But not anymore.”
“I like tennis and fencing,” Tom said. “The throw-and-catch ball games are the ones I don’t like. That’s from being brought up in Europe I guess. I’ll bet David could be a fine fencer if he wanted to learn because he has so much brains. But he doesn’t want to learn. All he wants to do is read and fish and shoot and tie flies. He shoots better than Andy does in the field. He can tie beautiful flies too. Am I bothering you, papa, talking so much?”
“Of course not, Tom.”
He was holding to the rail of the flying bridge and looking aft as his father was and his father put one hand on his shoulder. It was salty from the buckets of sea water the boys had thrown over each other on the stern before the fish struck. The salt was very fine and felt faintly sandy under his hand.
“You see I get so nervous watching David I talk to take my mind off it. I’d rather have David catch that fish than anything on earth.”
“He’s a hell of a fish. Wait till we see him.”
“I saw one one time when I was fishing with you years ago. He hit a big mackerel bait with his sword and he jumped and threw the hook. He was enormous and I used to dream about him. I’ll go down and make the drinks.”
“There’s no hurry,” his father told him.
Down in the backless fighting chair, set in its swivel base, David braced his feet against the stern and lifted with his arms, back, withers, and thighs; then lowered and reeled and lifted again. Steadily, an inch, two inches, three inches at a time he was getting more and more line on the reel.
“Is your head all right?” Eddy, who was holding the arms of the chair to steady it, asked him.
David nodded. Eddy put his hand on the top of the boy’s head and felt his cap.
“Cap’s still wet,” he said. “You’re giving him hell, Davy. Just like a machine.”
“It’s easier now than holding him,” David said, his voice still dry.
“Sure,” Eddy told him. “Something gives now. Other way it was just pulling your back out by the roots.”
“Don’t work him any faster than you can,” Roger said. “You’re doing wonderfully, Dave.”
“Will we gaff him when he comes up this time?” Andrew asked.
“Oh keep your mouth off of him, please,” David said.
“I wasn’t trying to mouth him.”
“Oh just shut up, Andy, please. I’m sorry.”
Andrew came climbing up topside. He had on one of the long-peaked caps but under it his father could see his eyes were wet and the boy turned his head away because his lips trembled.
“You didn’t say anything bad,” Thomas Hudson told him.
Andrew spoke with his head turned away. “Now if he loses him he’ll think I mouthed him,” he said bitterly. “All I wanted to do was help get everything ready.”
“It’s natural for Dave to be nervous,” his father told him. “He’s trying to be polite.”
“I know it,” Andrew said. “He’s fighting him just as good as Mr. Davis could. I just felt bad he could think that.”