“Just hark at him,” cried Josh. “A mussy me! He’s never seed the sea in a storm when— Look out, Master Awthur,” he whispered.
It was pretty dark, but Josh’s eyes were accustomed to that transparent gloom, and he had noted a tremulous motion of the boy’s line almost before Arthur started, for there was a gentle, insidious touch at his bait that telegraphed along the line to his fingers, and then drew it softly through them as the fish, whatever it was, took the bait and began to swim away.
Arthur started as Josh whispered to him, and his fingers closed upon the line.
The moment before this latter was moving as if some tiny fish were drawing it from him; but the moment his closing hands checked the line’s progress there was a tremendous jerk and a rush; and as, in spite of himself, Arthur held on, it seemed as if a boy a good deal stronger than himself were trying to pull it out of his hands, and after a few furious struggles seated himself, to hang at the end with his whole weight.
“I told you so,” said Josh in satisfied tones. “I knowed as well as could be that there would be a big one down yonder, and I think it is a big one, eh, Master Rawthur.”
“It’s—it’s a monster,” panted Arthur. “Hadn’t we better let it go?”
“Let it do what?” cried Josh. “A mussy me! what do he mean?”
“Oh! I say, Taff, you are a lucky one,” cried Dick in genuine disappointed tones. “On! all right, we’ve got one too.”
“Lucky one!” At that moment Arthur was bitterly repenting his want of foresight. Both hands were engaged now or he might have got out his pocketknife and, unseen by Josh in the darkness, have cut the line, which would have been supposed to be broken by the violent struggles of the great eel.
“I’ll never come again,” he thought to himself, “if ever I get safely back. I would not have come if I had known. Oh! what shall I do?”