A good half hour passed, but as the sailor had foreseen, several pairs of tetras returned to their nests. They hopped about, pecking the ground, and little suspecting the presence of the hunters, who had taken care to station themselves to leeward of the gallinaceæ. Herbert held his breath with excitement, while Pencroff, with dilated eyes, open month, and lips parted as if to taste a morsel of tetras, scarcely breathed. Meanwhile the gallinaceæ walked heedlessly among the hooks. Pencroff then gave little jerks, which moved the bait up and down as if the worms were still alive. How much more intense was his excitement than the fisherman’s who cannot see the approach of his prey! The jerks soon aroused the attention of the gallinaceæ, who began to peck at the bait. Three of the greediest swallowed hook and bait together. Suddenly, with a quick jerk, Pencroff pulled in his line, and the flapping of wings showed that the birds were taken. “Hurrah!” cried he, springing upon the game, of which he was master in a moment. Herbert clapped his hands. It was the first time he had seen birds taken with a line; but the modest sailor said it was not his first attempt, and, moreover, that the merit of the invention was not his. “And at any rate,” said he, “in our present situation we must hope for many such contrivances.” The tetras were tied together by the feet, and Pencroff, happy that they were not returning empty handed, and perceiving that the day was ending, thought it best to return home. Their route was indicated by the river, and following it downward, by 6 o’clock, tired out by their excursion, Herbert and Pencroff re-entered the Chimneys. CHAPTER VII. NEB HAS NOT YET RETURNED—THE REFLECTIONS OF THE REPORTER—THE SUPPER—PROSPECT OF A BAD NIGHT—THE STORM IS FRIGHTFUL—THEY GO OUT INTO THE NIGHT—STRUGGLE WITH THE RAIN AND WIND. Gideon Spilett stood motionless upon the shore, his arms crossed, gazing on the sea, whose horizon was darkened towards the east by a huge black cloud mounting rapidly into the zenith. The wind, already strong, was freshening, the heavens had an angry look, and the first symptoms of a heavy blow were manifesting themselves. Herbert went into the Chimneys, and Pencroff walked towards the reporter, who was too absorbed to notice his approach. “We will have a bad night, Mr. Spilett,” said the sailor. “Wind and rain enough for Mother Cary’s chickens.” The reporter turning, and perceiving Pencroff, asked this question:— “How far off from the shore do you think was the basket when it was struck by the sea that carried away our companion?” The sailor had not expected this question. He reflected an instant before answering:— “Two cables’ lengths or more.” “How much is a cable’s length?” demanded Spilett. “About 120 fathoms, or 600 feet.” “Then,” said the reporter, “Cyrus Smith would have disappeared not more than 1,200 feet from the shore?” “Not more than that.” “And his dog, too?” “Yes.”