He had gone down one afternoon to the overhanging wooden slip at Port
Gorey, and had excellent sport, until a sudden shift of the wind to the
south-west began piling the waters into the gulf on an incoming tide.
Then he drew in his lines and sat dangling his legs for a few minutes,
before gathering up his catch and going home.

Nance saw him from the other headland and came tripping round to see how
he had fared.

"Bern," she cried, as she came up. "Tell that man he's not safe down
there. The waves are bad there sometimes."

"Hi, you!" cried Bernel, to a miner who had been watching his success
and had then climbed down seaward over the furrowed black ledges, hoping
to do better there. "Come back! It's not safe there."

But the fisherman, intent on his sport, either did not, or would not,
hear him.

"Oh, well, if you won't," said Bernel.

And then, without warning, a wave greater than any that had gone before
it, hurled itself up the rocks and came roaring over the black ledges
into the bay, and the man was gone.

Nance and Bernel had straightened up instantly at the sound of its
coming.

Their eyes swept the rocks, and caught a glimpse of the dark body