“No, not a bit. My toes don’t go down as far as that. Ah, would you?”
This was to the fish, which was lashing about fiercely.
“Let me do it, Bob. I’ll kill it in no time, and I know how to manage him.”
“So do I,” said Bob independently, as he made another attack upon the dog-fish, which resented it by a fresh stroke with its spine, this time so near to Bob’s leg that he jumped back and fell over the thwart.
“I say, that was near,” he cried. “You have a try, Big.”
Our school-fellow wanted no second bidding, and taking hold of the line, he drew the fish’s head under his right foot, pressed down its tail with his left, took out the hook, and then with his knife inflicted so serious a cut upon the creature that, when he threw it over, it only struggled feebly, as it sank slowly and was carried away.
“There’s a cruel wretch!” cried Bob. “Did you see how vicious he was with his knife?”
“It isn’t cruel to kill fishes like that,” retorted Bigley. “See what mischief they do hunting the other fish and eating everything. See how they bite the herrings and mackerel out of the nets, only leaving their heads.”
“He wouldn’t have said anything if the dog had spiked him,” I said.
“Why, so he did spike me,” cried Bob; “and—”