“And peckaxe.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Why, it’s plain enough, sir. It was when I was turning a hole into a sort o’ ressywar to supply the garden—irrigglygate it, the master said, but I calls it watering.”
“But I was talking about the fish, Sam.”
“I know, sir; so was I. ‘How did you ketch ’em?’ says you. ‘Shovel,’ says I. I was making a place beyond the waterfall, and they swimmed in a hole there, where they’d got and couldn’t get out again. So I makes a dyke with the peck and turns the water off and then ladles the fish out with the shovel. Two basketsful there was. One I took indoors for the ladies, and t’other we ate; and Brooky put away so many they made him queer for some days. But they didn’t hurt me.”
“But I wanted to fish for them with a rod and line.”
“Oh–h–oh!” cried the old man. “You won’t get many that-a-way. P’r’aps it would be best for you though. It’s nation hard work pecking and digging, making dams and gullies among the rocks when the sun’s hot.”
“But I want some bait.”
“Ay, you’ll want some bait. We used to ketch eels at home with a big wum. There’s lots here—whackers, some on ’em. Shall I get you a few?”
“Yes, do, please.”