Arm in arm with Philip, she was strolling slowly down the great
pier which extends from the Mexican Gulf Hotel into the waters of
the Sound. There was no moon to-night, but the sky glittered and
scintillated with myriad stars, brighter than you can ever see
farther North, and the great waves that the Gulf breeze tossed up
in restless profusion gleamed with the white fire of
phosphorescent flame. The wet sands on the beach glowed white
fire; the posts of the pier where the waves had leapt and left a
laughing kiss, the sides of the little boats and fish-cars
tugging at their ropes, alike showed white and flaming, as though
the sea and all it touched were afire.
Annette and Philip paused midway the pier to watch two fishermen
casting their nets. With heads bared to the breeze, they stood
in clear silhouette against the white background of sea.
"See how he uses his teeth," almost whispered Annette.
Drawing himself up to his full height, with one end of the huge
seine between his teeth, and the cord in his left hand, the
taller fisherman of the two paused a half instant, his right arm
extended, grasping the folds of the net. There was a swishing
rush through the air, and it settled with a sort of sob as it cut
the waters and struck a million sparkles of fire from the waves.
Then, with backs bending under the strain, the two men swung on
the cord, drawing in the net, laden with glittering restless
fish, which were unceremoniously dumped on the boards to be put
into the fish-car awaiting them.
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