“That depends,” said Grummidge. “I’ve had ’em tuggin’ at my heart-strings worse than that many a time.”
“Look out! Here it comes,” cried Oliver, as something huge and white was seen to flash wildly in the green depths. “Have the cleek ready.”
“All ready, my boy,” said his father, in a low voice, leaning over the side with a stick, at the end of which was a large iron hook.
“Now then, father! Quick! Missed it? No! Hurrah!”
For a moment it seemed as if Master Trench had got Neptune himself on his cleek, so severely did his stout frame quiver. Then he gave a tremendous heave—“ya-hoy!” and up came a magnificent cod—the first of a grand hecatomb of cod-fish which have since that day enriched the world, nauseated the sick with “liver oil,” and placed Newfoundland among the most important islands of the British Empire.
“Well done, Olly!” exclaimed the delighted father; but he had barely time to open his mouth for the next remark, when Squill uttered an Irish yell, and was seen holding on to his line with desperate resolve stamped on every feature.
“That’s the merman this time,” cried Stubbs.
“His gran’mother, no less,” muttered Squill, in a strongly suppressed voice, while he anxiously hauled in the line.
A shout from the other side of the boat here diverted attention.
“Attacked front and rear!” cried Paul, with a hilarious laugh, “I shouldn’t wonder if—hallo! N–no, it was only a nib—ha! there he is!”