“Get out!” said Bob, “there are no big ones.”
“How do you know?” retorted Bigley. “That felt just like a large one.”
“Did he take hold of you with his suckers?” I said.
“No, I didn’t give him time.”
“If it had been a polly-squiggle it would have got you fast directly with its suckers,” I said oracularly.
“Never mind what it was, old Big. Go in and fetch it out again.”
“No; one of you two go, I don’t like,” said Bigley. “You can’t see where you’re putting your hand; and suppose he bites it off?”
“Why, then, you could have a wooden peg,” said Bob sneeringly. “Here, come out, my poor little man, and let me go in. I’ll soon fetch out my gentleman, you see if I don’t. Here, come out.”
Bob Chowne never meant to go in. His face said as much as he looked round at me; but his words had the effect he intended, for Bigley grunted and went back as far as the narrow crack in the grotto would allow, and boldly thrust in his hand.
“Mind, Big,” I said seriously, “be ready to snatch away your fist.”