“It’s no good,” said Mercer; “I’m very sorry. I wanted you to catch a big eel, and then you’d want to come again, and now you won’t care about it.”
“Oh yes, I shall,” I said. “It was worth coming too, even if we didn’t catch any more fish.”
“You think so? Look! you’ve got him!”
For my float was bobbing gently, and moving slowly away.
“No, no, don’t strike. Yes—let him have it. That’s an eel biting, and he will not leave it. You’ll see.”
The gentle bob, bob, bob of the float went on as it glided slowly away foot after foot, till I could bear the excitement no longer, and I turned my eyes to my companion as if to say, “Do let me strike now—strike gently.”
“Yes,” he cried, “he must have got it;” and I struck gently, and felt directly as if the hook was in a stump or a dead branch at the bottom of the pool.
“It isn’t a fish,” I said, looking at Mercer.
“What is it then?” he replied, laughing. “It’s an eel.”
“But it don’t move or run about.”