Over the Bay in the Eventide, when the Sun goes down in the West.
It was close upon half-past five, and all Will’s preparations had been made. Lines of strong cord with hooks bound up the snooding with brass wire were on their winders. There was a tub half full of tasty pilchards—damaged ones fresh out of a late boat that had come in that afternoon. There was another tub full of much more damaged pilchards—all pounded up for ground bait.
In fact nothing had been forgotten; even three oilskins had been lashed, in the stern ready for the visitors in case it should rain.
“I say,” said Josh, “how about the young gent? I mean him Master Dick calls Taff?”
“Well, what about him?” said Will.
“Won’t he be scared when we gets a conger over the side.”
“I never thought of that,” said Will musingly. “Oh! I should think not.”
“’Cause we shall be in a gashly pickle if we haul in a big one, and she scares the youngster out of the boat.”
“We must kill them at once,” said Will.
“Yes; it’s all very well to say kill ’em at once,” grumbled Josh; “but you know what a gashly thing a big conger is to kill.”