On the turf below is a round black spot, still showing, though a twelvemonth has gone by since we landed with half a dozen perch, lit a fire and cooked the fishes.

For Molly never could 'a-bear' perch, because of the hardness of the scales, saying she would as soon 'scrape a vlint;' and they laughed to scorn our idea of skinning them as you do moorhens, whose 'dowl' no fingers can pick.
So we lit a fire and blew it up, lying on the soft short grass in a state of nature after a swim, there being none to see us but the glorious sun.

The skinned perch were sweeter than any I have tasted since.
'Look!' whispers Orion, suddenly.

The quill above the blue buoy nods as it lifts over the wavelets--nods again, sinks a little, jerks up, and then goes down out of sight.

Orion feels the weight.