"And is that all?"
"Not quite. He squatted down upon his stump, and prodded the crock in the eye with the other wooden leg until he caved in."
"Oh, oh, oh! Sam, Sam!" they cried in a chorus.
By the time the laugh had subsided, Mr. Mole was ready with his novel fishing-apparatus. Novel, indeed.
He took a soda water bottle, filled with gunpowder and tightly corked, and through the cork was a twisted wire that was attached to the line.
The other end of the line was a small square box, which was furnished with four handles, similar to that of a barrel organ.
One of these handles was to pay out line, another was for winding in.
"And the other two?" demanded Harry Girdwood.
"Simple enough," said Mr. Mole; "this box is a battery, and in my line is a conductor that goes through the cork into the powder. When I feel a tug, a turn or two of my handle here sends a spark into the powder, and our friend the Squalus Carcharias gets a good deal more than he has time to digest."
"I begin to see."