The search for lob-worms was made at once.
'We'll have to dig for them, I suppose,' said Dick.
'Not a bit of it,' said Chippy. 'I'll show ye a lot quicker way than that.'
He went to the side of the field where there was a ditch nearly dry in the hot sun. He walked along the ditch until he came to a stone. He turned the stone swiftly, and there was almost sure to be a big lob lying underneath it, sometimes two or three. Before they could withdraw into their holes the Raven's finger was pressed on their tails, and they were helpless. In a few moments he had collected more than a dozen big lobs, and these were carried back triumphantly to the mill-pool in his hat.
Next he cut a couple of hazel-rods about four feet long, and fairly stiff, tied a short line to each, and fastened a strong-eyed hook at the end of the line.
'Now we're ready,' he said. 'This little game's called "sniggling," an' it's a sure thing if only th' eel's at 'ome. Lemme get 'old 'o one fust, an' show ye how to pull 'im out.'
Chippy put a lob on his hook, and then pinched a small split bullet—of which his friend had given him half a dozen—on the line about six inches above the hook. He dropped the weighted bait into a dark hole between two fragments of stone, and moved it gently about. Two or three minutes passed; then the Raven drew his bait up.
'Nobody in,' he remarked; 'try next door.' He moved a yard along the bank, and dropped the bait into a second dark crevice. It was seized instantly, and the line sharply plucked.
'One 'ere,' said Chippy; 'there's no mistake about hearin' from him, if there's one about.'
'Look how he's pulling at the line!' cried Dick, as the slender cord jerked again and again.