"It's a twenty-pounder, Eric," declared Woodleigh. "You're in luck."
"Twenty-pounder!" ejaculated the wellnigh breathless Flemming scornfully. "Feels like a ton.... Hello! What is it?"
"An eel—conger, most likely," declared Stratton, as a hideous head appeared. "Stand by with your knife, Woodleigh, and nick the brute behind the neck when Flemming gets it on board."
Resisting to the last, the salt-water reptile was hauled up the side and thrown on deck. At the second attempt Woodleigh succeeded in hacking the eel just behind its head.
"That's settled it!" he declared. "What an ugly brute. Now, if old Boldrigg were here, he'd have the eel skinned in a brace of shakes, and would wrap the skin round his ankle."
"What for?" asked Rayburn.
"He says an eel's skin is a certain cure for his rheumatism," replied Woodleigh.
"Old sailor's superstition, more'n likely. When——"
"Coil down and stand by, lads," ordered the Patrol Leader. "Here's Mr. Armitage coming off in the dinghy."
"Well, lads, I see you've had some luck," was the Scoutmaster's greeting as he boarded the Olivette, nearly slipping on a flat-fish as he did so.