"In that hole?"
"Why, yes."
"How on earth do you do it?"
By way of reply he asked me how many I had caught. I said, "None."
"Ah," said Baker, "you shouldn't fish, you should angle. Watch me."
I sat down and watched.
Baker had a short, thick stick in his hand. From the end of the stick hung a thick piece of whipcord. On the end of the cord he had a stone with a hole in it, what we, as children, used to call a lucky stone. Just above the stone he had tied a skinned pigeon—the whole bird. Hooks radiated in every direction from the bird; hooks set at every conceivable angle—dozens of hooks. From time to time Baker threw a few breadcrumbs at his bait. I could plainly see the small fish cluster round. Now and then he struck sharply. Nearly every time he fouled a small fish, mostly under the jaw or in the belly. Each time he hooked a fish he repeated: "My lad, you shouldn't fish; you should angle."
When we reached the Gwai River, Baker produced a long hand-line with an immense hook on the end of it. The bait he used was a lump of washing soap. I didn't go with him because I wasn't ready and he was impatient to begin.
"We shall catch big barbles here," said Baker.
I followed him, and saw him throw his lump of soap well out into the river. I stood on the bank above and watched.