“Want to cutoff that bad bit?” said Ned, producing his knife.
“Bad, eh? Why, that’s the beauty of it. I’m going to tie the hook on to it just there.”
“But if you fish for a crocodile like that, he’ll break away.”
“Not he. They never do. If I fished with a hard piece of rope, he’d bite right through it.”
“Then he must bite through that loose stuff. What is it—some kind of hemp?”
“No; fibre of the gamooti palm, and his teeth will only go through the loose stuff and bother him.”
He asked for something in Malay, and one of the men handed him a curiously-shaped hook, which he attached to the loose fibrous rope, and then took a piece of stout twine from his pocket.
“Now, Tim,” he cried, laughing, “give me the worm.”
Tim opened the basket a little way, thrust in his hand, drew out the unfortunate hen, which was quite white, and began shrieking and flapping wildly till her wings were held down to her sides.
“Are you going to bait with that?” said Ned.