“No, no, they make a kind of stone oven, and roast him first.”
“Oh, murder!” sighed Wriggs. “Just as if a man was a pig.”
“Will you be silent, sir, and lie still? You too, Mr Lane, and that man with you. What is the matter?”
“We’re being dragged overboard, sir,” grumbled Smith. “Got a whale, or some’at o’ that kind;” for Oliver was silent, his teeth were set, and he had all his work to do holding on to the line.
“Don’t speak and don’t move more than you can help,” whispered the mate. “I want you all to lie here as if you were so much of the coral reef. Now then, Smith, get your knife out and cut the line.”
“What, and let that there critter go, sir? He’s a fine ’un, maybe it’s salmon.”
“Silence. Out with your knife.”
“Can’t, sir. If I let’s go with one hand, it’ll take Mr Lane out to sea. It’s all we can do to hold on.”
“Mr Drew, you’re nearest. Keep flat down and crawl to where you can reach the line and cut it through.”
Drew made no reply, but as he lay there flat on his face, he took out his knife, opened it, and began to creep along the dozen yards or so toward where Lane and Smith lay perspiring in the sunshine, now getting a few moments’ rest, now fighting hard to hold the great fish as it tugged and dragged vigorously in its efforts to escape.