CHAPTER SIX.
A SEA-SIDE WEIR.
"It's of no good," said Bigley, as we tramped down over the rough sand and pebbles.

"When he says `no' he means it.

We could have managed the boat all right.

I say, I'll get him some day to let Binnacle Bill take us, and we'll buy some twisty Bristol for him, and make him spin yarns." "But where's the weir ?" I said, as we were getting close down to where the sea was breaking, and where the fresh-water of the little river came bubbling up from among the boulders after its dive down below, and was now mingling with the salt water of the sea.
"Where's the weir ?" cried Bigley.

"Why, this is it." "This ?" said Bob, "why it's only a lot of hurdles." So it appeared at first sight, but it was ingeniously contrived all the same for its purpose; and in accordance with the habits of the salmon and other fish that are fond of coming up with the tide to get into fresh-water, and run up the different rivers and streams.
It was a very simple affair, and looked to be exactly what Bob had said--a lot of old hurdles.