I had been conscious of a strong hand grasping my waistband and giving me a drag up, and now I was sitting trembling and holding tightly by the post.
“Now then, Master Mercer, don’t stare like that, lad. I’ve got you safe. There, out you come. My word, you’re wet! Stop a moment, though; you’d better try and get ashore before I pull him right out. There ain’t room for three of us. Can you manage it now?”
“Yes,” I said, standing up with my teeth chattering.
“Sure? Don’t tumble in.”
“I can do it,” I said, and, trembling the while as if cold, I walked dripping along the woodwork to the shore, where I sank down on the grass as if my legs had suddenly given way, and crouched there watching, as I saw the man from the farm, Jem Roff, with his arm round Mercer, whom he had lifted right out, bring him streaming with water to the shore, and the fishing-rod behind, while, as he lowered him on to the grass, there was a horrible writhe from something wet close to me, which made me start away.
“What have you two chaps been at?” cried Roff wonderingly. “The line’s all twissen round his legs,—and hold hard a minute till I get my knife. I must have that eel.”
Chapter Five.
“He’s a two and a half pounder, he is,” said Jem Roff as, after a bit of a struggle, he got tight hold of the writhing monster. “My word,” he continued, holding it down, “he’s a strong un! Here, you just slip your hand into my jacket pocket and get out my knife. Open it, will you?”