“My name is Arthur—Arthur Temple,” said the boy haughtily.
“’Course it is, sir; I ought to have known,” said Josh. “It was along of Master Dick, there, calling you by t’other name. As I was saying,” he continued hastily, “Will there gives them a tap with the disgorger, and then holds them under his boot, runs this here down till it touches the hook where they’ve swallowed it, takes a turn or two of the line round the handle and twists the hook out.”
“Why don’t you take the hook out properly—the same as I should from a fish?”
“What—with your fingers, sir?”
“Of course.”
“A mussy me!” said Josh. “Why, don’t you know how a conger can bite?”
“Bite! No,” said Arthur, turning pale. “Can they bite?”
“Bite!” cried Josh. “Why, love your heart, young gentleman, look ye here. See this?”
He held up one of the hooks at the end of the conger-line and showed the boy that not only was it very large, and tied on strong cord with a swivel or two, but it was bound from the shank some distance up the line with brass wire.
“Yes, I can see it,” said Arthur, “of course. Isn’t it too big? A fish would not take a great awkward thing like that in its mouth.”