Kirk shrugged. "Anyway, I got the figures from Graeme Mullins as well. He wrote an article on it. I can show it to you if you like."
"Mullins?" Kingsley asked incredulously. 'Our Graeme Mullins? He's nothing but a worm-drowner, he is."
"Well, I've got the article if you care to see it," Kirk said, a shade testily.
"You can't believe everything you read, baby boy."
"Particularly when it comes to fishing stories," I agreed. "But I'd still like to see the article."
Later, when we had retired to the bar, Kirk brought it along. Mullins belonged to the same society as the four Englishmen, something called the Sport-fishing Club of the British Isles. The club published its own magazine, and in its most recent issue was an article by Mullins on marlin fishing in the Azores, entitled "The New Eldorado."
Eppridge, silent until now, looked up from his glass of scotch. "The reel screamed," he said.
"Only way to start a fishing story," he said. "Absolutely. 'The reel screamed.' "
"That's not how Mr. Mullins begins this," I informed him.