“This won’t do,” said Mercer at last; “we shall have to try somewhere else. Here, I forgot all about Jem Roff; and look at ’em.”
“Look at what?”
“Why, the eels. Can’t you see them?”
“No.”
“Why, look at those bubbles coming up. That’s eels at work stirring up the mud at the bottom, or coming out of their holes. We’ll soon talk to them.”
His way of talking to the eels was to raise the floats so high, that, after trying several times, it became evident that he had adjusted the depth so that the bait touched the ground, and the floats lay half over on their sides.
“Now then,” he said, after examining the worms, “we ought to catch old Jem’s supper pretty soon. Throw in there, near me.”
I did as I was told, and the patient waiting began again, with changes of baits and moves in fresh positions, but without result, and I was beginning to get rather tired and hungry, when my companion said dolefully,—
“Don’t seem to bite. They won’t begin till it’s nearly dusk, and we shall have to go back before very long, for we must have some tea. Wonder whether cook’ll give us some meat? I know: we’ll get some eggs of Polly Hopley; she’ll boil ’em for us, and we’ll take ’em back.”
We fished for another hour.