“No, not now: let’s have something to eat first,” protested Dexter.
“Just you look here, young un, I’m captain,” cried Bob. “Do you know what cray-fish are!”
Dexter shook his head.
“Well, then, I’m just going to show yer.”
The water was about two feet deep, and ran slowly along by a perpendicular clayey bank on the side where they were, and, deliberately undressing, Bob let himself down into the river, and then began to grope along by the side, stooping from time to time to thrust his hand into some hole.
“Here, undo that chain, and let her drift by me,” he cried. “I shall fish all along here.”
Dexter obeyed—it seemed to be his fate to obey; and taking the boat-hook he held on easily enough by tree after tree, for there was scarcely any stream here, watching intently the while, as Bob kept on thrusting his hand into some hole.
“Oh!” cried Bob suddenly, as he leaned down as far as he could reach, and then rose slowly.
“Got one?”
“No: I missed him. It was an eel; I just felt him, and then he dodged back. Such a big un! They’re so jolly hard to hold.”