“Now, Ned, lay hold; and when the fish bites, give him plenty of line. Don’t strike.”
Ned took the rope offered to him eagerly, and yet with a feeling of reluctance, for the game was formidable.
“Let him go back into the river, and swallow the bait; then we’ll talk to him. Now all lie down and be quiet.”
The Malays were already as silent and motionless as a group in bronze, and Tim and the lads followed their example, every one watching the white hen, which, in happy ignorance of its perilous position, still pecked about quite close to the edge of the bank.
“Think it will come?” said Ned, after they had crouched there in silence for quite an hour.
“Can’t say,” whispered back the other. “More likely perhaps to bite of a night or early in the morning. Most likely to bite if we were not here. Fish always do if I leave my rod for a bit. Getting tired of waiting?”
“No; it’s too exciting.”
“No need to hold the rope without you like.”
“But I do like. Will he pull very hard?”
“When he’s hooked, but you must not let him pull hard when he first takes the hen. It’s just like some kinds of fishing; you don’t want to strike till the fish has swallowed the bait.”