“You wait a minute. It’s an eel, and a big one.”
My acquaintance with eels so far had been upon the slabs at the fishmonger’s shops, or in pieces browned and garnished with fried parsley, and my line remained so tight and still that I still doubted my companion’s words.
“He has got his tail in a hole, or twined about a stump.”
“But don’t you think the hook’s in a stump?”
“I never knew a stump bite at a worm, and run away with your float. There, he’s loose now. Keep him up, and don’t let him go down low again.”
I heard his words, but felt that all I could do was to let the eel go where it liked. For it started the fight by swinging its head rapidly from side to side in a succession of sharp jerks, and then began to make the line and the top of the rod quiver, as it worked its way backward, trying to descend to the bottom, while my efforts were, of course, directed towards pulling it to the top.
“That’s right; you’ve got him fast,” said Mercer. “It’s of no use to try and play him, he’ll keep on like that for long enough. Give me the rod while you get back to the bank. Then you must pull him out quickly, right up on to the grass, and put your foot upon him. Not afraid of eels, are you?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Because the big ones will bite—hard.”
I handed the rod, and walked back along the woodwork that was like the isthmus of our tiny wooden peninsula, and as soon as I was ashore, Mercer left his rod again, and handed me mine, following directly after, as I felt the snaky-looking creature writhing and undulating at the end of the line, sending quite a galvanic thrill up my arms the while.