“Sixpence!” said Mike.
“All right!” said Vince quietly: “I was ready to pay ninepence so as to say something. I’ve got him, though, and he’s a big one too.”
“Be steady, then. Don’t lose him, for I’m sick of trying, and I did want for us to have something for tea.”
“Oh, I’ve hooked him right enough; but he don’t stir.”
“Bah! Caught in the bottom.”
“Oh no, I’m not. He was walking right away with the bait, and when I struck I felt him give a regular good wallop.”
“Then it’s a conger, and it’s got its tail round a rock.”
“May be,” said Vince. “Well, congers aren’t bad eating.”
“B–r–r–ur!” shuddered Mike. “I hate hooking them. Line gets twisted into such a knot. You may cut it up: I shan’t.”
“Yes, I’ll cut him in chunks and fry him when I get him,” said Vince. “He’s coming, but it isn’t a conger. Comes up like a flat fish, only there can’t be any here.”